"_Diana_!"

The word seemed wrung from him, and as though something within her answered to its note of urgency, she suddenly yielded, stumbling forward on to her knees. His arms closed round her, holding her as in a vice, and she lay there, helpless in his grasp, her head thrown back a little, her young, slight breast fluttering beneath the thin silk of her blouse.

For a moment he held her so, staring down, at her, his breath hard-drawn between his teeth; then swiftly, with a stifled exclamation he stooped his head, kissing her savagely, bruising, crushing her lips beneath his own.

She felt her strength going from her--it seemed as though he were drawing her soul out from her body--and then, just as sheer consciousness itself was wavering, he took his mouth from hers, and she could see his face, white and strained, bent above her.

She leaned away from him, panting a little, her shoulders against the side of the car.

"G.o.d!" she heard him mutter.

For a s.p.a.ce the throb of the motor was the only sound that broke the stillness, but presently, after what seemed an eternity, he raised her from the floor, where she still knelt inertly, and set her on the seat again. She submitted pa.s.sively.

When he had resumed his place, he spoke in dry, level tones.

"I suppose I'm d.a.m.ned beyond forgiveness after this?"

She made no answer. She was listening with a curious fascination to the throb of her heart and the measured beat of the engine; the two seemed to meet and mingle into one great pulse, thundering against her tired brain.

"Diana"--he spoke again, still in the same toneless voice--"am I to be forbidden even the outskirts of your life now?"

She moved her head restlessly.

"I don't know--oh, I don't know," she whispered.

She was utterly spent and exhausted. Unconsciously every nerve in her had responded to the fierce pa.s.sion of that suffocating kiss, and now that the tense moment was over she felt drained of all vitality. Her head drooped listlessly against the cushions of the car and dark shadows stained her cheeks beneath the wide-opened eyes--eyes that held the startled, frightened expression of one who has heard for the first time the beat of Pa.s.sion's wings.

Gradually, as Errington watched her, the strained look left his face and was replaced by one of infinite solicitude. She looked so young as she lay there, huddled against the cushions--hardly more than a child--and he knew what that mad moment had done for her. It had wakened the woman within her. He cursed himself softly.

"Diana," he said, leaning forward. "For G.o.d's sake, say you forgive me, child."

The deep pain in his voice pierced through her dulled, senses.

"Why--why did you do it?" she asked tremulously.

"I did it--oh, because for the moment I forgot that I'm a man barred out from all that makes life worth living! . . . I forgot about the shadow, Diana. . . . You--made me forget."

He spoke with concentrated bitterness, adding mockingly:--

"After all, there's a great deal to be said in favour of the Turkish yashmak. It at least removes temptation."

Diana's hand flew to her lips--they burned still at the memory of those kisses--and he smiled ironically at the instinctive gesture.

"I hate you!" she said suddenly.

"Quite the most suitable thing you could do," he answered composedly.

All the softened feeling of a few moments ago had vanished: he seemed to have relapsed into his usual sardonic humour, putting a barrier between himself and her that set them miles apart.

Diana was conscious of a fury of resentment against his calm readjustment of the situation. He was the offender; it was for her to dictate the terms of peace, and he had suddenly cut the ground from under her feet.

Her pride rose in arms. If he could so contemptuously sweep aside the memory of the last ten minutes, careless whether his plea for forgiveness were granted or no, she would show him that for her, too, the incident was closed. But she would not forgive him--ever.

She opened her campaign at once.

"Surely we must be almost at the Rectory by now?" she began in politely conventional tones.

A sudden gleam of wicked mirth flashed across his face.

"Has the time, then, seemed so long?" he demanded coolly.

Diana's lips trembled in the vain effort to repress a smile. The man was impossible! It was also very difficult, she found, to remain righteously angry with such an impossible person.

If he saw the smile, he gave no indication of it. Rubbing the window with his hand he peered out.

"I think we are just turning in at the Rectory gates," he remarked carelessly.

In another minute the motor had throbbed to a standstill and the chauffeur was standing at the open door.

"I'm sorry we've been so long coming, sir," he said, touching his hat.

"I took a wrong turning--lost me way a bit."

Then as Errington and Diana pa.s.sed into the house, he added thoughtfully, addressing his engine:--

"She's a pretty little bit of skirt and no mistake. I wonder, now, if we was lost long enough, eh, Billy?"

CHAPTER VII

DIANA SINGS

"I feel that we are very much indebted to you, Mr. Errington," said Stair, when he and Joan had listened to an account of the afternoon's proceedings--the major portion of them, that is. Certain details were not included in the veracious history. "You seem to have a happy knack of turning up just at the moment you are most needed," he added pleasantly.

"I think I must plead indebtedness to Miss Quentin for allowing me such unique opportunities of playing knight errant," replied Max, smiling.

"Such chances are rare in this twentieth century of ours, and Miss Quentin always kindly arranges so that I run no serious risks--to life and limb, at least," he added, his mocking eyes challenging Diana's.

She flushed indignantly. Evidently he wished her to understand that that breathless moment in the car counted for nothing--must not be taken seriously. He had only been amusing himself with her--just as he had amused himself by chatting in the train--and again a wave of resentment against him, against the cool, dominating insolence of the man, surged through her.

"I hope you'll stay and join us at dinner," the Rector was saying--"unless it's hopelessly spoilt by waiting so long. Is it, Joan?"

"Oh, no. I think there'll be some surviving remnants," she a.s.sured him.

"Then if you'll overlook any discrepancies," pursued Stair, smiling at Errington, "do stay."

"Say, rather, if you'll overlook discrepancies," answered Errington, smiling back--there was something infectious about Stair's geniality.

"I'm afraid a boiled shirt is out of the question--unless I go home to fetch it!"

Diana stared at him. Was he really going to stay--to accept the invitation--after all that had occurred? If he did, she thought scornfully, it was only in keeping with that calm arrogance of his by which he allocated to himself the right to do precisely as he chose, irrespective of convention--or of other people's feelings.