"Bobby," she said, "you hate a lie. But what else could I do?"
He could not see her, could see only the little moon of her face, blurring.
"And anyhow," said Di, "it wasn't a lie. We didn't elope, did we?"
"What do you think I came for to-night?" asked Bobby.
The day had aged him; he spoke like a man. His very voice came gruffly. But she saw nothing, softened to him, yielded, was ready to take his regret that they had not gone on.
"Well, I came for one thing," said Bobby, "to tell you that I couldn't stand for your wanting me to lie to-day. Why, Di—I hate a lie. And now to-night—" He spoke his code almost beautifully. "I'd rather," he said, "they had never let us see each other again than to lose you the way I've lost you now."
"Bobby!"
"It's true. We mustn't talk about it."
"Bobby! I'll go back and tell them all."
"You can't go back," said Bobby. "Not out of a thing like that."