Errington tucked the rugs carefully round her, subst.i.tuting one of them for the coat she was wearing, spoke a few words to the chauffeur, and then seated himself opposite her.

Diana thought the car seemed to be travelling rather slowly as it began the steep ascent from the harbour to the Rectory. Possibly the chauffeur who had taken his master's instructions might have thrown some light on the subject had he so chosen.

"Quite warm now?" queried Errington.

Diana snuggled luxuriously into her corner.

"Quite, thanks," she replied. "You're rapidly qualifying as a good Samaritan _par excellence_, thanks to the constant opportunities I afford you."

He laughed shortly and relapsed into silence, leaning his elbow on the cushioned ledge beside him and shading his face with his hand. Beneath its shelter, the keen blue eyes stared at the girl opposite with an odd, thwarted expression in their depths.

Presently Diana spoke again, a tinge of irony in her tones.

"And--after this--when next we meet . . . are you going to cut me again?

. . . It must have been very tiresome for you, that an unkind fate insisted on your making my closer acquaintance."

He dropped his hand suddenly.

"Oh, forgive me!" he exclaimed, with a quick gesture of deprecation.

"It--it was unpardonable of me . . ." His voice vibrated with some strong emotion, and Diana regarded him curiously.

"Then you meant it?" she said slowly. "It was deliberate?"

He bent his head affirmatively.

"Yes," he replied. "I suppose you think it unforgivable. And yet--and yet it would have been better so."

"Better? But why? I'm generally"--dimpling a little--"considered rather nice."

"'Rather nice'?" he repeated, in a peculiar tone. "Oh, yes--that does not surprise me."

"And some day," she continued gaily, "although I'm n.o.body just now, I may become a really famous person--and then you might be quite happy to know me!"

Her eyes danced with mirth as she rallied him.

He looked at her strangely.

"No--it can never bring me happiness. . . _Ah, mais jamais_!" he added, with sudden pa.s.sion.

Diana was startled.

"It--it was horrid of you to cut me," she said in a troubled voice.

"My punishment lies in your hands," he returned. "When I leave you at the Rectory--after to-day--you can end our acquaintance if you choose.

And I suppose--you, _will_ choose. It would be contrary to human nature to throw away such an excellent opportunity for retaliation--feminine human nature, anyway."

He spoke with a kind of half-savage raillery, and Diana winced under it.

His moods changed so rapidly that she was bewildered. At one moment there would be an exquisite gentleness in his manner when he spoke to her, at the next a contemptuous irony that cut like a whip.

"Would it be--a punishment?" she asked at last.

He checked a sudden movement towards her.

"What do you suppose?" he said quietly.

"I don't know what to think. If it would be a punishment, why were you so anxious to take it out of my hands? It was you who ended our acquaintance on Sunday, remember."

"Yes, I know. Twice I've closed the door between us, and twice fate has seen fit to open it again."

"Twice? . . . Then--then it _was_ you--in Grellingham Place that day?"

"Yes," he acknowledged simply.

Diana bent her head to hide the small, secret smile that carved her lips.

At last, after a pause--

"But why--why do you not want to know me?" she asked wonderingly.

"Not want to?" he muttered below his breath. "G.o.d in heaven! _Not want to_!" His hand moved restlessly. After a minute he answered her, speaking very gently.

"Because I think you were born to stand in the sunshine. Some of us stand always in the shadow; it creeps about our feet, following us wherever we go. And I would not darken the sunlit places of your life with the shadow that clings to mine."

There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his tones.

"Can't you--can't you banish the shadow?" faltered Diana. A sense of tragedy oppressed her. "Life is surely made for happiness," she added, a little wistfully.

"Your life, I hope." He smiled across at her. "So don't let us talk any more about the shadow. Only"--gently--"if I came nearer to you--the shadow might engulf you, too." He paused, then continued more lightly: "But if you'll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps--perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life--watch you pa.s.s by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new _prima donna_." He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man. It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.

"I wonder"--he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity--"I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one? But, no"--he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply--"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you: 'That flower is the gift of a man--a rough boor of a man--who was atrociously rude to me once. I don't even value it enough to pick it up.' Whereupon every one--quite rightly, too!--would cry shame on the man who had dared to insult so charming a lady--probably adding that if bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . . And I've no doubt he'll get his desserts," he added carelessly.

Diana felt the tears very near her eyes and her lip quivered.. This man had the power of hurting her--wounding her to the quick--with his bitter raillery.

When she spoke again her voice shook a little.

"You are wrong," she said, "quite wrong. I should pick up the flower and"--steadily--"I should keep it, because it was thrown to me by a man who had twice done me the greatest service in his power."

Once again he checked, as if by sheer force of will, a sudden eager movement towards her.

"Would you?" he said quickly. "Would you do that? But you would be mistaken; I should be gaining your kindness under false pretences. The greatest service in my power would be for me to go away and never see you again. . . . And, I can't do that--now," he added, his voice vibrating oddly.

His eyes held her, and at the sound of that sudden note of pa.s.sion in his tone she felt some new, indefinable emotion stir within her that was half pain, half pleasure. Her eyelids closed, and she stretched out her hands a little gropingly, almost as if she were trying to ward away something that threatened her.

There was appeal in the gesture--a pathetic, half-childish appeal, as though the shy, virginal youth of her sensed the distant tumult of awakening pa.s.sion and would fain delay its coming.

She was just a frank, whole-hearted girl, knowing nothing of love and its strange, inevitable claim, but deep within her spoke that instinct, premonition--call it what you will--which seems in some mysterious way to warn every woman when the great miracle of love is drawing near. It is as though Love's shadow fell across her heart and she were afraid to turn and face him--shrinking with the terror of a trapped wild thing from meeting his imperious demand.

Errington, watching her, saw the childish gesture, the quiver of her mouth, the soft fall of the shadowed lids, and with a swift, impetuous movement he leaned forward and caught her by the arms, pulling her towards him. Instinctively she resisted, struggling in his grip, her eyes, wide and startled, gazing into his.