“Henry!”—­his wife turned upon him—­“I am convinced that poor child will never marry!”

“Give her time, my dear, and don’t talk nonsense!”

“It isn’t nonsense!  I tell you I felt just as I did when I went to see Mary Theed, years ago—­you remember that pretty cousin of mine who became a Carmelite nun?—­for the first time after she had taken the veil.  She spoke to one from another world—­it gave one the shivers!—­and was just as smiling and cheerful over it as Diana—­and it was just as ghastly and unbearable and abominable—­as this is.”

“Well, then,” said the doctor, after a pause, “I suppose she’ll take to good works.  I hope you can provide her with a lot of hopeless cases in the village.  Did she mention Marsham at all?”

“Not exactly.  But she asked about the election—­”

“The writs are out,” interrupted the doctor.  “I see the first borough elections are fixed for three weeks hence; ours will be one of the last of the counties; six weeks to-day.”

“I told her you thought he would get in.”

“Yes—­by the skin of his teeth.  All his real popularity has vanished like smoke.  But there’s the big estate—­and his mother’s money—­and the collieries.”

“The Vicar tells me the colliers are discontented—­all through the district—­and there may be a big strike—­”

“Yes, perhaps in the autumn, when the three years’ agreement comes to an end—­not yet.  Marsham’s vote will run down heavily in the mining villages, but it’ll serve—­this time.  They won’t put the other man in.”

Mrs. Roughsedge rose to take off her things, remarking, as she moved away, that Marsham was said to be holding meetings nightly already, and that Lady Lucy and Miss Drake were both hard at work.

“Miss Drake?” said the doctor, looking up.  “Handsome girl!  I saw Marsham in a dog-cart with her yesterday afternoon.”

Mrs. Roughsedge flushed an angry red, but she said nothing.  She was encumbered with parcels, and her husband rose to open the door for her.  He stooped and looked into her face.

“You didn’t say anything about that, Patricia, I’ll be bound!”

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Diana was wandering about the Beechcote garden, with her hands full of roses, just gathered.  The garden glowed under the westering sun.  In the field just below it the silvery lines of new-cut hay lay hot and fragrant in the quivering light.  The woods on the hill-side were at the richest moment of their new life, the earth-forces swelling and rioting through every root and branch, wild roses climbing every hedge—­the miracle of summer at its height.

Diana sat down upon a grass-bank, to look and dream.  The flowers dropped beside her; she propped her face on her hands.

The home-coming had been hard.  And perhaps the element in it she had felt most difficult to bear had been the universal sympathy with which she had been greeted.  It spoke from the faces of the poor—­the men and women, the lads and girls of the village; with their looks of curiosity, sometimes frank, sometimes furtive or embarrassed.  It was more politely disguised in the manners and tones of the gentle people; but everywhere it was evident; and sometimes it was beyond her endurance.