"Oh, no, Mr. Carr!"
"I am afraid yes, mademoiselle. I am-a common felon . . . a highwayman!" He bit the words out, not looking at her.
"But I knew that," she said softly.
"You knew it?"
"Why, yes! I remember when you told Aunt Betty."
"You believed me?"
"You see," she apologised, "I always wondered why you were masked."
"And yet you permitted me to stay-"
"How silly of you, Mr. Carr! Of course I do not care what you are! I owe so much to you!"
He wheeled round at that, and faced her.
"Madam, I can bear anything rather than gratitude! Is it only that which has made you tolerate me all this time?"
Her fingers gripped one another.
"Why, sir-why, sir-"
The flame died out of his eyes, and he drew himself up stiffly, speaking with a curtness that surprised her.
"I crave your pardon. I should be whipped at the cart-tail for asking such an impertinent question. Forget it, I beg."
Diana looked up at the stern face, half amazed, half affronted.
"I do not think I quite understand you, sir."
"There is nought to understand, mademoiselle," he answered with dry lips. "'Twere merely that I was coxcomb enough to hope that you liked me a little for mine own sake."
She glanced again at his averted head with a wistful little smile.
"Oh!" she murmured. "Oh!"-and̵"It is very dreadful to be a highwayman!" she sighed "Yes, mademoiselle."
"But surely you could cease to be one?" coaxingly.
He did not trust himself to answer.
"I know you could. Please do!"
"That is not all," he forced himself to say. "There is worse."
"Is there?" she asked wide-eyed. "What else have you done, Mr. Carr?"
"I-once-" heavens, how hard it was to say! "I once . . . cheated . . . at cards." It was out. Now she would turn from him in disgust. He shut his eyes in anticipation of her scorn, his head turned away.
"Only once?" came the soft voice, filled with awed admiration.
His eyes flew open.
"Mademoiselle!-"
She drooped her head mournfully.
"I'm afraid I always cheat," she confessed. "I had no idea 'twas so wicked, although Auntie gets very cross and vows she will not play with me."
He could not help laughing.
"'Tis not wicked in you, child. You do not play for money."
"Oh, did you?"
"Yes, child."
"Then that was horrid of you," she agreed.
He stood silent, fighting the longing to tell her the truth.
"But-but-do not look so solemn, sir," the pleading voice went on. "I am sure you must have had a very strong excuse?"
"None."
"And now you are letting it spoil your life?" she asked reproachfully.