Diana gave a vague assent.  She had, in truth, two recent letters from Marsham in her pocket at that moment, giving a brilliant and minute account of the Parliamentary situation.  But she hid the fact, warm and close, like a brooding bird; only drawing on her companion to talk politics, that she might hear Marsham’s name sometimes, and realize the situation Marsham had described to her, from another point of view.—­And all the time her ear listened for the sound of hoofs, and for the front door bell.

At last!  The peal echoed through the old house.  Sir James rose, and, instinctively, Diana rose too.  Was there a smile—­humorous and tender—­in the lawyer’s blue eyes?

“I’ll go and finish my cigarette out-of-doors.  Such a tempting afternoon!”

And out he hurried, before Diana could stop him.  She remained standing, with soft hurrying breath, looking out into the garden.  On a lower terrace she saw Fanny and Alicia Drake walking together, and could not help a little laugh of amusement that seemed to come out of a heart of content.  Then the door opened, and Marsham was there.

CHAPTER IX

Marsham’s first feeling, as he advanced into the room, and, looking round him, saw that Diana was alone, was one of acute physical pleasure.  The old room with its mingling of color, at once dim and rich; the sunlit garden through the casement windows; the scent of the logs burning on the hearth, and of the hyacinths and narcissus with which the warm air was perfumed; the signs everywhere of a woman’s life and charm; all these first impressions leaped upon him, aiding the remembered spell which had recalled him—­hot-foot and eager—­from London, to this place, on the very first opportunity.

And if her surroundings were poetic, how much more so was the girl-figure itself!—­the slender form, the dark head, and that shrinking joy which spoke in her gesture, in the movement she made toward him across the room.  She checked it at once, but not before a certain wildness in it had let loose upon him a rush of delight.

“Sir James explained?” he said, as he took her hand.

“Yes.  I had no notion you would be here—­this week-end.”

“Nor had I—­till last night.  Then an appointment broken down—­and—­me voici!”

“You stay over to-morrow?”

“Of course!  But it is absurd that the Feltons should be five miles away!”

She stammered: 

“It is a charming ride.”

“But too long!—­One does not want to lose time.”

She was now sitting; and he beside her.  Mechanically she had taken up some embroidery—­to shield her eyes.  He examined the reds and blues of the pattern, the white fingers, the bending cheek.  Suddenly, like Sir James Chide or Hugh Roughsedge, he was struck with a sense of change.  The Dian look which matched her name, the proud gayety and frankness of it, were somehow muffled and softened.  And altogether her aspect was a little frail and weary.  The perception brought with it an appeal to the protective strength of the man.  What were her cares?  Trifling, womanish things!  He would make her confess them; and then conjure them away!