In every story of life-long affection, there is one moment in which the bond is sealed. Diana looked up at the frank tender face, and felt that she had found her conqueror. Master, friend, protector, husband, adoring and devoted lover, gallant and fearless champion--he was all; and she divined his power and his worth as she glanced shyly upward, ashamed to be so lightly won. "M. Lenoble," she faltered, trying to withdraw herself from the strong encircling arm that held her, as if by right. "Gustave, now and for ever, my Diane! There shall be no more Monsieur Lenoble. And in a few weeks it shall be 'my husband.' Your father has given me to you. He tells me to laugh at your refusals your scruples; to assail you like your Shakespeare's Petruchio assails his Katherine--with audacious insolence that will not be denied. And I shall take his advice. Look up into my face, dear angel, and defy me to take his advice." Happily the dear angel looked only downwards. But M Lenoble was resolved to have an agreeable response. "See, then, thou canst not defy me!" he cried, in the only language he spoke; and the "_tu_" for the first time sounded very tender, very sweet. "Thou canst not tell me thou art angry with me. And the other--the imbecile;--he is gone for ever, is he not? Ah, say yes!" "Yes, he is gone," said Diana, almost in a whisper. "Is he quite gone? The door of thine heart locked against him, his luggage thrown out of the window?" "He is gone!" she murmured softly. "He could not hold his place against you--you are so strong--so brave; and he was only a shadow. Yes, he is gone." She said this with a little sigh of relief. It was in all sincerity that she answered her suitor's question. She felt that a crisis had come in her life--the first page of a new volume; and the old sad tear-blotted book might be cast away. "Dear angel, wilt thou ever learn to love me?" asked Gustave, in a half-whisper, bending down his bearded face till his lips almost touched her cheek. "It is impossible not to love you," she answered softly. And indeed it seemed to her as if this chivalrous Gaul was a creature to command the love of women, the fear of men; an Achilles _en frac_; a Bayard without his coat of mail; Don Quixote in his youth, generous, brave, compassionate, tender, and with a brain not as yet distempered by the reading of silly romances.