She leaned away from him, panting a little, her shoulders against the side of the car.

“God!” she heard him mutter.

For a space the throb of the motor was the only sound that broke the stillness, but presently, after what seemed an eternity, he raised her from the floor, where she still knelt inertly, and set her on the seat again.  She submitted passively.

When he had resumed his place, he spoke in dry, level tones.

“I suppose I’m damned beyond forgiveness after this?”

She made no answer.  She was listening with a curious fascination to the throb of her heart and the measured beat of the engine; the two seemed to meet and mingle into one great pulse, thundering against her tired brain.

“Diana”—­he spoke again, still in the same toneless voice—­“am I to be forbidden even the outskirts of your life now?”

She moved her head restlessly.

“I don’t know—­oh, I don’t know,” she whispered.

She was utterly spent and exhausted.  Unconsciously every nerve in her had responded to the fierce passion of that suffocating kiss, and now that the tense moment was over she felt drained of all vitality.  Her head drooped listlessly against the cushions of the car and dark shadows stained her cheeks beneath the wide-opened eyes—­eyes that held the startled, frightened expression of one who has heard for the first time the beat of Passion’s wings.

Gradually, as Errington watched her, the strained look left his face and was replaced by one of infinite solicitude.  She looked so young as she lay there, huddled against the cushions—­hardly more than a child—­and he knew what that mad moment had done for her.  It had wakened the woman within her.  He cursed himself softly.

“Diana,” he said, leaning forward.  “For God’s sake, say you forgive me, child.”

The deep pain in his voice pierced through her dulled, senses.

“Why—­why did you do it?” she asked tremulously.

“I did it—­oh, because for the moment I forgot that I’m a man barred out from all that makes life worth living! . . .  I forgot about the shadow, Diana. . . .  You—­made me forget.”

He spoke with concentrated bitterness, adding mockingly:—­

“After all, there’s a great deal to be said in favour of the Turkish yashmak.  It at least removes temptation.”

Diana’s hand flew to her lips—­they burned still at the memory of those kisses—­and he smiled ironically at the instinctive gesture.

“I hate you!” she said suddenly.

“Quite the most suitable thing you could do,” he answered composedly.  All the softened feeling of a few moments ago had vanished:  he seemed to have relapsed into his usual sardonic humour, putting a barrier between himself and her that set them miles apart.

Diana was conscious of a fury of resentment against his calm readjustment of the situation.  He was the offender; it was for her to dictate the terms of peace, and he had suddenly cut the ground from under her feet.  Her pride rose in arms.  If he could so contemptuously sweep aside the memory of the last ten minutes, careless whether his plea for forgiveness were granted or no, she would show him that for her, too, the incident was closed.  But she would not forgive him—­ever.