A sense of tragedy oppressed her.

"Life is surely made for happiness," she added, a little wistfully.
"Your life, I hope." He smiled across at her.

"So don't let us talk any more about the shadow.

Only"-- gently--"if I came nearer to you--the shadow might engulf you, too." He paused, then continued more lightly: "But if you'll forgive my barbarous incivility of Sunday, perhaps--perhaps I may be allowed to stand just on the outskirts of your life--watch you pass by on your road to fame, and toss a flower at your feet when all the world and his wife are crowding to hear the new _prima donna_." He had dropped back into the vein of light, ironical mockery which Diana was learning to recognise as characteristic of the man.

It was like the rapier play of a skilled duellist, his weapon flashing hither and thither, parrying every thrust of his opponent, and with consummate ease keeping him ever at a distance.
"I wonder"-- he regarded her with an expression of amused curiosity--"I wonder whether you would stoop to pick up my flower if I threw one?
But, no"-- he answered his own question hastily, giving her no time to reply--"you would push it contemptuously aside with the point of your little white slipper, and say to your crowd of admirers standing around you: 'That flower is the gift of a man--a rough boor of a man--who was atrociously rude to me once.