"Certainly. What do you mean by going to sleep in my favorite chair?" "Oh, dear! Oh, Jim!" she wailed, dropping back helplessly into the depths of the chair, "I must be perfectly crazy to do such a thing! What time is it? I came in here to—to get something"—she pressed her hands to her temples—"to find—to look— Oh, I don’t know what I’m talking about!" Her hands dropped; she gazed hopelessly up at him. "Did you _ever_ hear of such a perfect fool?" she said. "What time _is_ it?—if you think I can bear the information." "It’s only eight." "Eight! Jim, dear, _will_ you go to that telephone and inform Mr. Rivett that I have not been run over, murdered, or arrested?" He went over and telephoned, adding: "Don’t wait for either of us. Leave the tickets on Diana’s dresser. We’ll be along pretty soon." "What did you mean, Jim?" she asked, struggling with her veil. "It’s so late," he said, "that you’d better wait for me to get into my jeans, and then I’ll take you over and you can get into yours, and then we’ll dine together, and go in for the last act if we have time." "I’ve spoiled your evening," she said. "Do you think so?" "Oh, I know it. _Did_ Mr. Rivett think me an utter lunatic?" "He didn’t say so over the wire." "What _did_ he say, Jim?" "Nothing that meant anything." "_Tell_ me!" "All he said was for me to take care of you. You perceive the irony, don’t you?" "Irony?" she repeated, looking at him. "Why? Aren’t you capable of doing it?" "Do you need anybody to look after you?" he asked, smiling. Slowly she lifted her eyes to his; his smile died out. Never had he looked into such a desolate face. "What is it?" he said, astonished; "what on earth is the matter, Diana? Has anything happened?" "Nothing—unusual—I suppose." "You are not ill, are you?" The tears were slowly blinding her, and she turned her head, standing so, fighting for self-mastery. "Diana——" She motioned him to silence. He stood it as long as he could, then stepped over beside her and touched her arm. "Tell me, dear?" he said under his breath. She strove to speak—could not, yet; motioned him aside, but he would have none of such commands. "You took my troubles on your slender shoulders," he said; "may I not help you to carry one or two of yours?" ... And, as she made no answer: "Dear, if you have not loved me, you have done for me, perhaps, even more than love might have done." She had dried her eyes; now she turned to him quietly. "It was love.... But don’t mistake it, Jim.... It was a love that asked for nothing that it had not—desired nothing that you had not already given.... I thought it best to tell you—because—it is a world of men; and women—sometimes—are held—lightly in it——" Her lip quivered, but she, somehow, managed to meet his eyes and smile. "All that happened long ago, Jim." "Did love—die?" "Yours," she said, smiling. "I slew it very neatly for you." "I mean yours, Diana?"