“I can honestly and truthfully affirm that I look upon her as one of the best women in the world.”

“That isn’t the point.  Louise de la Valliere became one of the best women in the world; but there are some other things that might be said of her.  But I’ll not argue; I’ll not insist.  Since you think I’m wrong, I’ll take your own word for it, Derek.  Just tell me once, tell me without quibble and on your honor as my cousin and a gentleman, that you believe Diane to be—­what I’ve supposed her to be hitherto, and what you know very well I mean, and I’ll not doubt it further.”

For a moment he stood speechless, trying to formulate the lie he could utter most boldly, until he was struck with the double thought that to defend Diane’s honor with a falsehood would be to defame it further, while a lie to this pure, trusting, virginal spirit would be a crime.

“Tell me, Derek,” she insisted; “tell me, and I’ll believe you.”

He retreated a pace or two, as if trying to get out of her presence.

“I’m listening, Derek; go on; I’m willing to take your word.”

“Then I repeat,” he said, weakly, “that I believe her, I know her, to be one of the best women in the world.”

“Like Louise de la Valliere?”

“Yes,” he shouted, maddened to the retort, “like Louise de la Valliere!  And what then?” He stood as if demanding a reply.  “Nothing.  I have no more to say.”

“Then I have; and I’ll ask you to listen.”  He drew near to her again and spoke slowly.  “There were doubtless many good women in Jerusalem in the time of Herod and Pilate and Christ; but not the least held in honor among us to-day is—­the Magdalen.  That’s one thing; and here’s something more.  There is joy, so we are told, in the presence of the angels of God—­plenty of it, let us hope!—­but it isn’t over the ninety-and-nine just persons who need no repentance, so much as over the one poor, deserted, lonely sinner that repenteth—­that repenteth, Lucilla, do you hear?-and you know whom I mean.”

With this as his confession of faith he left her, to go in search of Diane.  He had formed the ultimatum before which, as he believed, she should find herself obliged to surrender.

It was a day on which Diane’s mood was one of comparative peace.  She was engrossed in an occupation which at once soothed her spirits and appealed to her taste.  Madame Cauchat, the land-lady, bewailing the continued illness of her lingere, Diane had begged to be allowed to take charge of the linen-room of the hotel, not merely as a means of earning a living, but because she delighted in such work.  Methodical in her habits and nimble with her needle, the neatness, smoothness, and purity of piles of white damask stirred all those house-wifely, home-keeping instincts which are so large a part of every Frenchwoman’s nature.  Her fingers busy with the quiet, delicate task of mending, her mind could dwell with the greater content on such subjects as she had for satisfaction.