Inside the dark sitting-room of which Moon had caught a glimpse a curious thing had happened, almost an instant after the intemperate exit of Rosamund.  It was something which, occurring in that obscure parlour, seemed to Arthur Inglewood like heaven and earth turning head over heels, the sea being the ceiling and the stars the floor.  No words can express how it astonished him, as it astonishes all simple men when it happens.  Yet the stiffest female stoicism seems separated from it only by a sheet of paper or a sheet of steel.  It indicates no surrender, far less any sympathy.  The most rigid and ruthless woman can begin to cry, just as the most effeminate man can grow a beard.  It is a separate sexual power, and proves nothing one way or the other about force of character.  But to young men ignorant of women, like Arthur Inglewood, to see Diana Duke crying was like seeing a motor-car shedding tears of petrol.

He could never have given (even if his really manly modesty had permitted it) any vaguest vision of what he did when he saw that portent.  He acted as men do when a theatre catches fire—­very differently from how they would have conceived themselves as acting, whether for better or worse.  He had a faint memory of certain half-stifled explanations, that the heiress was the one really paying guest, and she would go, and the bailiffs (in consequence) would come; but after that he knew nothing of his own conduct except by the protests it evoked.

“Leave me alone, Mr. Inglewood—­leave me alone; that’s not the way to help.”

“But I can help you,” said Arthur, with grinding certainty; “I can, I can, I can...”

“Why, you said,” cried the girl, “that you were much weaker than me.”

“So I am weaker than you,” said Arthur, in a voice that went vibrating through everything, “but not just now.”

“Let go my hands!” cried Diana.  “I won’t be bullied.”

In one element he was much stronger than she—­the matter of humour. 
This leapt up in him suddenly, and he laughed, saying:  “Well, you are mean. 
You know quite well you’ll bully me all the rest of my life. 
You might allow a man the one minute of his life when he’s allowed to bully.”

It was as extraordinary for him to laugh as for her to cry, and for the first time since her childhood Diana was entirely off her guard.

“Do you mean you want to marry me?” she said.

“Why, there’s a cab at the door!” cried Inglewood, springing up with an unconscious energy and bursting open the glass doors that led into the garden.

As he led her out by the hand they realized somehow for the first time that the house and garden were on a steep height over London.  And yet, though they felt the place to be uplifted, they felt it also to be secret:  it was like some round walled garden on the top of one of the turrets of heaven.