“No, papa.”

“Very well.  Now we know where we are.  If anyone hears this report repeated, send them to me.”

“Well, but that satchel—­” said Ina, to whom an idea manifested less as a function than as a leech.

“One moment,” said Dwight.  “Lulu will of course verify what the child has said.”

There had never been an adult moment until that day when Lulu had not instinctively taken the part of the parents, of all parents.  Now she saw Dwight’s cruelty to her as his cruelty to Di; she saw Ina, herself a child in maternity, as ignorant of how to deal with the moment as was Dwight.  She saw Di’s falseness partly parented by these parents.  She burned at the enormity of Dwight’s appeal to her for verification.  She threw up her head and no one had ever seen Lulu look like this.

“If you cannot settle this with Di,” said Lulu, “you cannot settle it with me.”

“A shifty answer,” said Dwight.  “You have a genius at misrepresenting facts, you know, Lulu.”

“Bobby wanted to say something,” said Ina, still troubled.

“No, Mrs. Deacon,” said Bobby, low.  “I have nothing—­more to say.”

In a little while, when Bobby went away, Di walked with him to the gate.  It was as if, the worst having happened to her, she dared everything now.

“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.”

She stood staring after him.  She heard some one coming and she turned toward the house, and met Cornish leaving.

“Miss Di,” he cried, “if you’re going to elope with anybody, remember it’s with me!”

Her defence was ready—­her laughter rang out so that the departing Bobby might hear.

She came back to the steps and mounted slowly in the lamplight, a little white thing with whom birth had taken exquisite pains.

“If,” she said, “if you have any fear that I may ever elope with Bobby Larkin, let it rest.  I shall never marry him if he asks me fifty times a day.”