Diana sat down, very shy, and a little flushed.  Mr. Marsham hovered about her, inducing her to loosen her furs, bringing her tea, and asking questions about her settlement at Beechcote.  He showed also a marked courtesy to Mrs. Colwood, and the little widow, susceptible to every breath of kindness, formed the prompt opinion that he was both handsome and agreeable.

Oliver Marsham, indeed, was not a person to be overlooked.  His height was about six foot three; and his long slender limbs and spare frame had earned him, as a lad, among the men of his father’s works, the description of “two yards o’ pump-waater, straight oop an’ down.”  But in his thin lengthiness there was nothing awkward—­rather a graceful readiness and vigor.  And the head which surmounted this lightly built body gave to the whole personality the force and weight it might otherwise have missed.  The hair was very thick and very fair, though already slightly grizzled.  It lay in heavy curly masses across a broad head, defining a strong brow above deeply set small eyes of a pale conspicuous blue.  The nose, aquiline and large; the mouth large also, but thin-lipped and flexible; slight hollows in the cheeks, and a long, lantern jaw.  The whole figure made an impression of ease, power, and self-confidence.

“So you like your old house?” he said, presently, to Diana, sitting down beside her, and dropping his voice a little.

“It suits me perfectly.”

“I am certain the moat is rheumatic!  But you will never admit it.”

“I would, if it were true,” she said, smiling.

“No!—­you are much too romantic.  You see, I remember our conversations.”

“Did I never admit the truth?”

“You would never admit it was the truth.  And my difficulty was to find an arbiter between us.”

Diana’s face changed a little.  He perceived it instantly.

“Your father was sometimes arbiter,” he said, in a still lower tone—­“but naturally he took your side.  I shall always rejoice I had that chance of meeting him.”

Diana said nothing, but her dark eyes turned on him with a soft friendly look.  His own smiled in response, and he resumed: 

“I suppose you don’t know many of these people here?”

“Not any.”

“I’m sure you’ll like Mr. Ferrier.  He is our very old friend—­almost my guardian.  Of course—­on politics—­you won’t agree!”

“I didn’t expect to agree with anybody here,” said Diana, slyly.

He laughed.

“I might offer you Lady Niton—­but I refrain.  To-morrow I have reason to believe that two Tories are coming to dinner.”

“Which am I to admire?—­your liberality, or their courage?”

“I have matched them by two socialists.  Which will you sit next?”

“Oh, I am proof!” said Diana. “‘Come one, come all.’”

He looked at her smilingly.

“Is it always the same?  Are you still in love with all the dear old abuses?”