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 God'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