That shrunken and wasted being the Oliver Marsham of two months before!  Her heart beat against her breast.  Surely she was looking at the irreparable!  Her high courage wavered and sank.

* * * * *

But Marsham did not perceive it.  He saw, as in a cloud, the lovely oval of the face, the fringed eyes, the bending form.

“Will you sit down?” he said, hoarsely.

She took a chair beside him, still holding his hand.  It seemed as though she were struck dumb by what she saw.  He inquired if she was at Beechcote.

“Yes.”  Her head drooped.  “But I want Lady Lucy to let me come and stay here—­a little.”

“No one ought to stay here,” he said, abruptly, two spots of feverish color appearing on his cheeks.  “Sir James would advise you not.  So do I.”

She looked up softly.

“Your mother is so tired; she wants help.  Won’t you let me?”

Their eyes met.  His hand trembled violently in hers.

“Why did you come?” he said, suddenly, breathing fast.

She found no words, only tears.  She had relinquished his hand, but he stretched it out again and touched her bent head.

“There’s no time left,” he said, impatiently, “to—­to fence in.  Look here!  I can’t stand this pain many minutes more.”  He moved with a stifled groan.  “They’ll give me morphia—­it’s the only thing.  But I want you to know.  I was engaged to Alicia Drake—­after—­we broke it off.  And I never loved her—­not for a moment—­and she knew it.  Then, as soon as this happened she left us.  There was poetic justice, wasn’t it?  Who can blame her?  I don’t.  I want you to know—­what sort of a fellow I am.”

Diana had recovered her strength.  She raised his hand, and leaned her face upon it.

“Let me stay,” she repeated—­“let me stay!”

“No!” he said, with emphasis.  “You should only stay if I might tell you—­I am a miserable creature—­but I love you!  And I may be a miserable creature—­in Chide’s opinion—­everybody’s.  But I am not quite such a cur as that.”

“Oliver!” She slipped to her knees.  “Oliver! don’t send me away!” All her being spoke in the words.  Her dark head sank upon his shoulder, he felt her fresh cheek against his.  With a cry he pressed her to him.

“I am dying—­and—­I—­I am weak,” he said, incoherently.  He raised her hand as it lay across his breast and kissed it.  Then he dropped it despairingly.

“The awful thing is that when the pain comes I care about nothing—­not even you—­nothing.  And it’s coming now.  Go!—­dearest.  Good-night.  To-morrow!—­Call my servant.”  And as she fled she heard a sound of anguish that was like a sword in her own heart.

His servant hurried to him; in the passage outside Diana found Lady Lucy.  They went back to the sitting-room together.

“The morphia will ease him,” said Lady Lucy, with painful composure, putting her arm round the girl’s shoulders.  “Did he tell you he was dying?”