Diana read to the end.  She put it down with something like a smile.  As she paced the room, her head thrown back, her hands behind her, the weight had been lifted from her; she breathed from a freer breast.

Very soon she went back to her desk and began to write.

“My dear Oliver,—­I did not realize how things were when you came yesterday.  Now I see.  You must not marry me.  I could not bear to bring poverty upon you, and—­to-day—­I do not feel that I have the strength to meet your mother’s and your sister’s opposition.

“Will you please tell Lady Lucy and Mrs. Fotheringham that I have received their letters?  It will not be necessary to answer them.  You will tell them that I have broken off the engagement.

     “You were very good to me yesterday.  I thank you with all my
     heart.  But it is not in my power—­yet—­to forget it all.  My
     mother was so young—­and it seems but the other day.

     “I would not injure your career for the world.  I hope that
     all good will come to you—­always.

     “Probably Mrs. Colwood and I shall go abroad for a little
     while.  I want to be alone—­and it will be easiest so.  Indeed,
     if possible, we shall leave London to-morrow night.  Good-bye.

     “DIANA.”

She rose, and stood looking down upon the letter.  A thought struck her.  Would he take the sentence giving the probable time of her departure as an invitation to him to come and meet her at the station?—­as showing a hope that he might yet persist—­and prevail?

She stooped impetuously to rewrite the letter.  Instead, her tears fell on it.  Sobbing, she put it up—­she pressed it to her lips.  If he did come—­might they not press hands?—­look into each other’s eyes?—­just once, once more?

* * * * *

An hour later the home was in a bustle of packing and housekeeping arrangements.  Muriel Colwood, with a small set face and lips, and eyes that would this time have scorned to cry, was writing notes and giving directions.  Meanwhile, Diana had written to Mrs. Roughsedge, and, instead of answering the letter, the recipient appeared in person, breathless with the haste she had made, the gray curls displaced.

Diana told her story, her slender fingers quivering in the large motherly hand whose grasp soothed her, her eyes avoiding the tender dismay and pity writ large on the old face beside her; and at the end she said, with an effort: 

“Perhaps you have all expected me to be engaged to Mr. Marsham.  He did propose to me—­but—­I have refused him.”

She faltered a little as she told her first falsehood, but she told it.

“My dear!” cried Mrs. Roughsedge, “he can’t—­he won’t—­accept that!  If he ever cared for you, he will care for you tenfold more now!”

“It was I,” said Diana, hurriedly—­“I have done it.  And, please, I would rather it were now all forgotten.  Nobody else need know, need they, that he proposed?”