When at
length he straightened up again and briskly brushed the sand from his
coat sleeve to cover his emotion, he forced himself to meet his
cousin's troubled glance directly.
Instantly the careless byplay ceased. The desperate imploring in the
eyes of each keyed the situation to electric tensity. Curiously
enough, both were thinking of Philip. Curiously enough, in this hour
of reckoning Philip was an invisible arbiter urging them to generous
understanding.
Diane was the first to speak. And, in the fashion of Diane since
childhood, she bravely plunged into the heart of the thing with
glistening eyes.
"Carl," she said, "I am very sorry."
It was heartfelt apology for the old offense.
Carl's face went wildly scarlet. The girl's gentleness, prepared as he
was for the inevitable flash of fire, had caught him unawares.
Springing forward, he caught her hands roughly in his own.
"Don't!" he said roughly. "For God's sake, Diane, don't! It's awfully
decent of you--but--but I can't stand it! Have you forgotten--" he
choked. "Surely," he said, "Philip told you all. He promised--"
"Yes," said Diane, "and--and that's why--" She was very close to tears
now, but with the old imperiousness, with the Spartan pride of the
Westfall training behind her, she flung back her head with a quick dry
sob, her eyes imploring.
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