"Why are you so changed to me?" I questioned. "Are you still angry about that unfortunate business of the mirror, or is it because I kissed you, or--" "Ah--don't talk of it!" she cried fiercely. "No man's ever kissed me so before--on the mouth--" "Thank heaven!" said I. "I hate ye for it and her most of all!" "'Her', Diana? Whom do you mean?" "Your fine lady aunt!" "But, good heaven! What had my aunt Julia to do with it?" "I don't care! I hate her--with her great, proud eyes and haughty ways--and offering me money an' all--" "Yes," said I, "it was wrong of her to attempt to bribe you--" "You did as much once--only it was your watch, so don't you talk! I suppose my lady thinks I'm after you for your money. Oh, I wish t' God I'd never seen you! And I shan't much longer--" "Ah, do you mean that you will attempt to run away?" I demanded. But Diana merely stared sullenly at the road before us. "This would be very, very wrong, Diana, very cruel and very wicked because, according to the laws of the Folk, you are already my wife." "But not according to the Church. You said so--an' you ain't of the Folk!" "But I might turn gipsy--others have done so." "Aye, but not your kind; you're best wi' your fine aunt to coddle you--go back to your grand house an' servants, young man, and stay there!" "Some day, but not yet," I answered. "And when I go--you will go with me." "Oh, shall I!" she exclaimed scornfully. "You're precious sure of yourself, ain't you?" "I am!" I nodded, folding my arms. "And of one other thing!" "What?" "That you will make a very ill-tempered wife!" "Oh, shall I!" "You will." "Not your'n, anyway. You ain't man enough." "We shall see!" said I between shut teeth. "Aha, now you're angry!" she laughed gleefully, and with some little malice. "You are enough to enrage a saint!" I retorted, and turning my back, I bore with her gibes and fleerings as patiently as I might nor deigned her further notice, so that in a little she became mute also; and thus at last we reached Tonbridge. Scarcely were we in the High Street than, not waiting for Diana to draw rein, I leapt from the cart with such precipitation that I tripped awkwardly and rolled, grovelling, in the dust. Scrambling hastily to my feet, I saw she had pulled up and was eyeing me a little anxiously, but her voice was sullen as ever when she spoke. "Are ye hurt?" she questioned ungraciously. "Thank you--no!" I answered, brushing the dust from my bruised knees. "All right!" she nodded, "I'll meet ye in the yard at 'The Chequers'--half-past four!" and away she drove without so much as one backward glance.