“Would it be—­a punishment?” she asked at last.

He checked a sudden movement towards her.

“What do you suppose?” he said quietly.

“I don’t know what to think.  If it would be a punishment, why were you so anxious to take it out of my hands?  It was you who ended our acquaintance on Sunday, remember.”

“Yes, I know.  Twice I’ve closed the door between us, and twice fate has seen fit to open it again.”

“Twice? . . .  Then—­then it was you—­in Grellingham Place that day?”

“Yes,” he acknowledged simply.

Diana bent her head to hide the small, secret smile that carved her lips.

At last, after a pause—­

“But why—­why do you not want to know me?” she asked wonderingly.

“Not want to?” he muttered below his breath.  “God in heaven! Not want to!” His hand moved restlessly.  After a minute he answered her, speaking very gently.

“Because I think you were born to stand in the sunshine.  Some of us stand always in the shadow; it creeps about our feet, following us wherever we go.  And I would not darken the sunlit places of your life with the shadow that clings to mine.”

There was an undercurrent of deep sadness in his tones.

“Can’t you—­can’t you banish the shadow?” faltered Diana.  A sense of tragedy oppressed her.  “Life is surely made for happiness,” she added, a little wistfully.

“Your life, I hope.”  He smiled across at her.  “So don’t let us talk any more about the shadow.  Only”—­gently—­“if I came nearer to you—­the shadow might engulf you, too.”  He paused, then continued more lightly:  “But if you’ll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps—­perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life—­watch you pass by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new prima donna.”  He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man.  It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.

“I wonder”—­he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity—­“I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one?  But, no”—­he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply—­“you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you:  ’That flower is the gift of a man—­a rough boor of a man—­who was atrociously rude to me once.  I don’t even value it enough to pick it up.’  Whereupon every one—­quite rightly, too!—­would cry shame on the man who had dared to insult so charming a lady—­probably adding that if bad luck befell him it would be no more than he deserved! . . .  And I’ve no doubt he’ll get his desserts,” he added carelessly.