hates to cry." So I obeyed her and sitting up, saw that Diogenes, like
the four-footed philosopher he was, had come to a halt and was
serenely cropping the grass by the roadside. And so we presently drove
on again, but though Diana frowned no more, she persistently avoided
my glance.

"Diana," said I at last, vainly endeavouring to meet her gaze, "who is
the--one man?"

"Him as I shall marry, of course--if I ever do!" she answered.

"Then that man is myself, of course!"

"You are a sight too cocksure!"

"Am I?"

"Yes, and--very rough, I think."

"Oh, forgive me--did I hurt you--just now, when I--"

"You did!"

"Where?"

"Here, on the throat, Peregrine."

"Let me look," said I, peering. Then, "The wound is not apparent,
Diana, unless it is--here!" and leaning closer, I touched her soft
neck with my lips. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?"