"Diana," said Enoch, abruptly, "you make me wish that I were a poet,
instead of a politician."
"But you aren't a politician!" protested Diana. "You shall not malign
yourself so."
"A pleasant comment on our American politics!" exclaimed Enoch. "Well,
whatever I am, words fail me utterly when I try to describe the appeal
of your beauty."
"Enoch," there was a note of protest in Diana's voice, "you aren't
going to make love to me on this trip, are you?"
Enoch's voice expressed entire astonishment. "Why certainly I am,
Diana!"
"You'll make it very hard for me!" sighed Diana.
Enoch knelt in the sand before her and lifted her hands against his
cheek.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, his great voice, rich and mellow although
it hardly rose above a whisper, "my only sweetheart, not for all the
love in the world would I make it hard for you. Not for all your love
would I even attempt to leave you with one memory that is not all that
is sweet and noble. Only in these days I want you to learn all there
is in my heart, as I must learn all that is in yours. For, after that,
Diana, we must never see each other again."
Diana freed one of her hands and brushed the tumbled hair from Enoch's
forehead.
"Do you realize," he said, quietly, "that in all the years of my memory
no woman has caressed me so? I am starved, Diana, for just such a
gentle touch as that.
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