The tone of her voice, the expression on her face showed him, with a fresh force of revelation, what paralysis had fallen on his life.  If he could not reconvince her of his love, he would be in perpetual fear—­that he might come back and find her gone, fear that she might even do something terrible to herself.  He looked at her with a sort of horror, and, without a word, went out of the room.  The feeling that he must hit his head against something was on him once more, and once more he sought to get rid of it by tramping up and down.  Great God!  Such a little thing, such fearful consequences!  All her balance, her sanity almost, destroyed.  Was what he had done so very dreadful?  He could not help Diana loving him!

In the night, Gyp had said:  “You are cruel.  Do you think there is any man in the world that I wouldn’t hate the sight of if I knew that to see him gave you a moment’s pain?” It was true—­he felt it was true.  But one couldn’t hate a girl simply because she loved you; at least he couldn’t—­not even to save Gyp pain.  That was not reasonable, not possible.  But did that difference between a man and a woman necessarily mean that Gyp loved him so much more than he loved her?  Could she not see things in proportion?  See that a man might want, did want, other friendships, even passing moments of passion, and yet could love her just the same?  She thought him cruel, called him cruel—­what for?  Because he had kissed a girl who had kissed him; because he liked talking to her, and—­yes, might even lose his head with her.  But cruel!  He was not!  Gyp would always be first with him.  He must make her see—­but how?  Give up everything?  Give up—­Diana? (Truth is so funny—­it will out even in a man’s thoughts!) Well, and he could!  His feeling was not deep—­that was God’s truth!  But it would be difficult, awkward, brutal to give her up completely!  It could be done, though, sooner than that Gyp should think him cruel to her.  It could be—­should be done!

Only, would it be any use?  Would she believe?  Would she not always now be suspecting him when he was away from her, whatever he did?  Must he then sit down here in inactivity?  And a gust of anger with her swept him.  Why should she treat him as if he were utterly unreliable?  Or—­was he?  He stood still.  When Diana had put her arms round his neck, he could no more have resisted answering her kiss than he could now fly through the window and over those poplar trees.  But he was not a blackguard, not cruel, not a liar!  How could he have helped it all?  The only way would have been never to have answered the girl’s first letter, nearly a year ago.  How could he foresee?  And, since then, all so gradual, and nothing, really, or almost nothing.  Again the surge of anger swelled his heart.  She must have read the letter which had been under that cursed bust of old Voltaire all those months ago.  The poison had been working ever since!  And in sudden fury