“Perhaps I will go again in August,” he sighed in the train. It was then the seventh of June. On the fifteenth of June he was back again in the “Moulin d’Or.” Diane was already much better. She could hobble about alone with the help of two sticks. She was more bewitching than ever. He stayed three weeks, till her ankle was quite well, and they could go for walks together in the woods. And he called her Diane, and she called him Paul. And one day, as the sun was setting, he flung his arms round her and gasped: “Diane.... Diane! I love you!” And he kissed her on the lips, and her roguish eyes searched his. “Oh, you!” she murmured. “You bad boy ... you!” “But I love you, Diane. I want you. I can’t live without you. You must come away with me. We will get married. We will build a world of our own. Oh, you beautiful! Tell me you love me, or I shall go mad!” She laughed that low, gurgling, silvery laugh of hers. “What are you saying?” she said. “How should I know? I think you are—a nice boy. But I cannot leave my father.” “My dear, he managed all the time you had to lie with your foot up. Don’t torture me! Oh, you must love me, Diane. I couldn’t love you so much if you didn’t love me a little in return.” “Perhaps I do,” she said, smiling. “What is it, then, Diane?” “Oh, I don’t know. I do not want to marry. I want to be free, to see the world. I am ambitious. I have been to the conservatoire at Souboise. They say I can sing and dance. My father has spent his savings on me.” “Darling, if you marry me, you shall be free. You shall do as you like. You shall dance and sing and see the world. Everything of mine shall be yours if only you will love me. You must—you must. Diane!” “Well ... we shall see. Come; father will be anxious.” In July he left his _pension_ and moved out to Montmartre. He had never definitely proposed to Lucile, but his expressions of affection had been so definite that he felt ashamed. He spent his holiday in August at the “Moulin d’Or.” And Diane promised to marry him “one day.” “Diane,” he said, “I will work for you. You have inspired me. I shall go back to Paris and think of you all day, and dream of you all night.” “That won’t give you much time to make your fortune, my little cabbage.” “Do not mock me. Where would you like to live?” “In Paris, in Nice, in Rome, in Vienna. And then, one day, I would like to creep back here and just live in the ‘Moulin d’Or.’” “The ‘Moulin d’Or’?” “Oh, we could improve it. We could build an extra wing, with a dancing-hall, and more nice bedrooms, and a garage. We could improve the inn, but we could not improve these beautiful hills. Isn’t that true, little friend?” “Nothing could be improved where you are. You are perfection.” “Yes, but—”