For the first time since her midnight expedition she felt a sensation of the full weight of the deed.  She heard thunder.

She tried to disperse the growing burden by an inward summons to contempt of the journalistic profession, but nothing would come.  She tried to minimize it, and her brain succumbed.  Her views of the deed last night and now throttled reason in two contending clutches.  The enormity swelled its dimensions, taking shape, and pointing magnetically at her.  She stood absolutely, amazedly, bare before it.

‘Is it of such very great importance?’ she said, like one supplicating him to lessen it.

’A secret of State?  If you ask whether it is of great importance to me, relatively it is of course.  Nothing greater.  Personally my conscience is clear.  I never mentioned it—­couldn’t have mentioned it—­to any one but you.  I’m not the man to blab secrets.  He spoke to me because he knew he could trust me.  To tell you the truth, I’m brought to a dead stop.  I can’t make a guess.

I’m certain, from what he said, that he trusted me only with it:  perfectly certain.  I know him well.  He was in his library, speaking in his usual conversational tone, deliberately, nor overloud.  He stated that it was a secret between us.’

‘Will it affect him?’

’This article?  Why, naturally it will.  You ask strange questions.  A Minister coming to a determination like that!  It affects him vitally.  The members of the Cabinet are not so devoted . . . .  It affects us all—­the whole Party; may split it to pieces!  There’s no reckoning the upset right and left.  If it were false, it could be refuted; we could despise it as a trick of journalism.  It’s true.  There’s the mischief.  Tonans did not happen to call here last night?—­absurd!  I left later than twelve.’

‘No, but let me hear,’ Diana said hurriedly, for the sake of uttering the veracious negative and to slur it over.  ‘Let me hear . . .’  She could not muster an idea.

Her delicious thrilling voice was a comfort to him.  He lifted his breast high and thumped it, trying to smile.  ’After all, it’s pleasant being with you, Tony.  Give me your hand—­you may:  I ’m bothered—­confounded by this morning surprise.  It was like walking against the muzzle of a loaded cannon suddenly unmasked.  One can’t fathom the mischief it will do.  And I shall be suspected, and can’t quite protest myself the spotless innocent.  Not even to my heart’s mistress! to the wife of the bosom!  I suppose I’m no Roman.  You won’t give me your hand?  Tony, you might, seeing I am rather . . .’

A rush of scalding tears flooded her eyes.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she said, and forced her sight to look straight at him through the fiery shower.  ‘I have done positive mischief?’

‘You, my dear Tony?’ He doated on her face.  ’I don’t blame you, I blame myself.  These things should never be breathed.  Once in the air, the devil has hold of them.  Don’t take it so much to heart.  The thing’s bad enough to bear as it is.  Tears!  Let me have the hand.  I came, on my honour, with the most honest intention to submit to your orders:  but if I see you weeping in sympathy!’