"Oh, Peregrine," she whispered. "Don't--don't look at me so--as if you hated me--don't, ah, don't!" And then, oh, wonder of wonders! Her arms were about my neck, drawing me lower and lower until her soft cheek met mine and, clasping me thus, she spoke under her breath: "He didn't. Peregrine--he didn't! No man shall ever kiss me in line except--just--one!" "Who?" I questioned, grasping her to me. "Who is that one?" "Loose me, now," she pleaded. "You'll make me cry in a minute, and I hates to cry." So I obeyed her and sitting up, saw that Diogenes, like the four-footed philosopher he was, had come to a halt and was serenely cropping the grass by the roadside. And so we presently drove on again, but though Diana frowned no more, she persistently avoided my glance. "Diana," said I at last, vainly endeavouring to meet her gaze, "who is the--one man?" "Him as I shall marry, of course--if I ever do!" she answered. "Then that man is myself, of course!" "You are a sight too cocksure!" "Am I?" "Yes, and--very rough, I think." "Oh, forgive me--did I hurt you--just now, when I--" "You did!" "Where?" "Here, on the throat, Peregrine." "Let me look," said I, peering. Then, "The wound is not apparent, Diana, unless it is--here!" and leaning closer, I touched her soft neck with my lips. "Did I hurt you anywhere else?" "No!" said she hastily and with sudden shy look. "I could almost regret my gentleness!" I sighed. After this we drove in silence awhile; that is to say Diogenes ambled along at his own leisurely gait, as if he very well knew that 'time was made for slaves'. So I looked at Diana, drinking in this new, shy beauty of her, and she looked at earth and sky, at hedgerow and rolling meadow but with never a glance at me. "It was wrong of you to think the gentleman kissed me!" said she suddenly, beginning to frown. "It was!" I admitted. "Very wrong indeed!" "Then why did you?" "Because I was a fool!" "Well, I don't like fools!" "Then I will endeavour to be wiser." "'T will need a lot o' trying, I think," said she, scowling. "Good heavens!" said I. "Are _you_ angry now?" "Yes, I can be angry as well as you, I s'pose?" "Of course!" said I. "You have contrived to be very ill-tempered lately." "Oh, have I?" "You have! And very slipshod in your speech--indeed, your diction is worse than ever--" "Oh, stow your gab!" "Now you are coarse and vulgar in the extreme!" "Well, that's better than pretending to be what I ain't. And if you don't like my talk--hold your tongue and I'll hold mine!" "I will!" said I. "Do!" she snapped. And so was silence again, wherein the birds seemed to sing quite out of tune and Diogenes a lazy quadruped very much needing the whip. "Cannot you drive a little faster?" I suggested.