"Friend!" he repeated. "Oh, curse and confound it, Perry, if I wasn't such a miserable, hopeless dog, I should be proud of such friendship--I am proud of it and always shall be--but here our companionship ends. There's but one course for me, and I intend to ride to the devil--alone!" It was at this moment that the door opened and I rose to my feet, trembling, as Diana stepped into the room. She was clad for riding and her close-fitting habit served only to accentuate the voluptuous beauty of her form, yet her eyes seemed maidenly and untroubled, wide-opened and serenely steadfast as of old, and this of itself stirred within me a sullen resentment as she stood looking at me, a little pale, very wistful, yet radiant in her beauty; and when she spoke her voice was untroubled as her look. "Mr. Vere-Manville, I beg you will leave us awhile!" Even as she spoke, Anthony bowed, strode to the door and was gone before I could stay him. "Peregrine?" One word, softly uttered, yet in it a world of pleading--reproach and troubled wonderment, insomuch that, remembering that accursed black-bodied chaise, the ring and gossamer veil, my sullen resentment waxed to bitter anger, the whole thing seemed so utterly nauseous. Evening was falling and from one of the trees in the orchard a blackbird was calling to his mate, soft and sweetly plaintive, and never, to the end of my days, may I hear such without recalling all the agony of this hour. We stood very silent, looking upon each other, while the blackbird piped in the orchard below; and now I trembled no more, for my anger was passed and in its stead was a cold and purposeful determination. "Are you better, Peregrine?" she questioned at last. "More yourself?" "Thank you, yes." When next she spoke her voice faltered a little, though her glance never wavered. "Peregrine, why--why did you--drive me away? Why refuse to see me?" "To avoid a painful scene." "But what should cause a painful scene--between us, Peregrine? Oh, my dear, what is it--what has changed you? Is it your illness?" "Let us suppose so." "Have you no--no other explanation to offer me?" she questioned wistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet a little nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger of which I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there no other explanation?" "None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!" "Peregrine--dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to--to love one more--more worthy than I in my absence?" "God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred and utterly detestable." "Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "for without your love I shall be desolate!" "But you are so beautiful--so very beautiful you will never lack for comfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager and willing. So why talk of desolation?"