But he was gone from the dark window, and, frightened, she bent over, caught up her walking stick, and took one impulsive step toward the door. And stood stock still in the middle of the floor as he entered. His eyes met hers, fell on the supporting cane; and she covered her face with her left arm, standing there motionless. "Good God!" he breathed. "_You!_" She began to cry like a child. "I didn't want you to know," she wailed. "Oh, I didn't want you to know. I thought there was no use--no hope--until yesterday. . . . I--wanted to go to New York with the doctor and be made all sound and well again b-before--before I let you love me----" "Oh, Diana--Diana!" he whispered, with his arms around her. "Oh, Diana--Diana--my little girl Diana!" Which was silly enough, she being six feet--almost as tall as he. "Turn your back," she whispered. "I want to go to my desk--and I can't bear to have you see me walk." "You darling----" "No, no, no! Please let them cure me first. . . . Turn your back." He kissed her hands, held her at arm's length a second, then turned on his heel and stood motionless. He heard her move almost noiselessly away; heard a desk open and close; heard the chair by the window move as she seated herself. "Come here," she said in a curious, choked voice. He turned, went swiftly to her side. "Great heavens!" he said. "When did you bake that cake?" "Y-yesterday." "Why?" "B-because I was going away to New York and would never perhaps see you again unless I was entirely cured. And I meant to leave this for you--so you would know that I had followed you even here--so you would know I had made a plucky try at you--through all these months--" "You--you corker!" "D-do you really mean it?" "Mean it! I tell you, Diana, you women put it all over the lords of creation--or any lord ever created! Mean it! You bet I do, sweetness! I'll take back everything I ever said about women. They're _the_ real thing in the world! And the best thing for the world is to let them run it!" "But--dear----" she faltered, lifting her beautiful eyes to him, "if men are going to feel _that_ way about it, we won't want to run anything at all. . . . It was only because you wouldn't let us that we wanted to." He said in impassioned tones: "Let the bally world run itself, Diana. What do we care--you and I?" "No," she said, "we don't care now." Then that rash and infatuated young man, losing his head entirely, drew from his jeans a large jack-knife, and, before she could prevent him, he had sliced off an enormous hunk of plum cake heavily frosted with his own words. "Don't, dear!" she begged him. "I couldn't ask _that_ of you----" "I will!" he said, and bit into it. "Don't!" she begged him; "please don't! I haven't had much experience with pastry. It may give you dreadful dreams!" "Let it!" he said. "What do I care for dreams while you remain real! Diana--Diana--huntress of bigger game than ever fled through the age of fable!"