Five or ten minutes afterward, a brougham drove up to the door of Lytchett, and a small lady emerged.  She had rung the bell, and was waiting on the steps, when a pony-carriage also turned into the Lytchett avenue and drew near rapidly.

A girl in a shady hat was driving it.

“The very creature!” cried Lady Niton, under her breath, smartly tapping her tiny boot with the black cane she carried, and referring apparently to some train of meditation in which she had been just engaged.  She waved to her own coachman to be off, and stood awaiting Diana.

[Illustration:  “SIR JAMES MADE HIMSELF DELIGHTFUL TO THEM”]

“How do you do, Miss Mallory?  Are you invited?  I’m not.”

Diana descended, and they shook hands.  They had not met since the evening at Tallyn when Diana, in her fresh beauty, had been the gleaming princess, and Lady Niton the friendly godmother, of so promising a fairy tale.  The old woman looked at her curiously, as they stood in the drawing-room together, while the footman went off to find Sir James.  Frail—­dark lines under the eyes—­a look as of long endurance—­a smile that was a mere shield and concealment for the heart beneath—­alack!

And there was no comfort to be got out of calling down fire from heaven on the author of this change, since it had fallen so abundantly already!

“Sit down; you look tired,” said the old lady, in her piping, peremptory voice.  “Have you been here all the summer?”

“Yes—­since June.”

“Through the election?”

“Yes.”  Diana turned her face away.  Lady Niton could see the extreme delicacy to which the profile had fined down, the bluish or purple shadows here and there on the white skin.  Something glittered in the old woman’s eyes.  She put out a hand from the queer flounced mantle, made out of an ancient evening dress, in which she was arrayed, and touched Diana’s.

“You know—­you’ve heard—­about those poor things at Tallyn?”

Diana made a quick movement.  Her eyes were on the speaker.

“How is Mr. Marsham?”

Lady Niton shook her head.  She opened a hand-bag on her wrist, took out a letter, and put on her eye-glasses.

“This is Lucy—­arrived this morning.  It don’t sound well.  ’Come when you can, my dear Elizabeth—­you will be very welcome.  But I do not know how I have the courage to ask you.  We are a depressing pair, Oliver and I. Oliver has been in almost constant pain this last week.  If it goes on we must try morphia.  But before that we shall see another doctor.  I dread to think of morphia.  Once begin it, and what will be the end?  I sit here alone a great deal—­thinking.  How long did that stone take to throw?—­a few seconds, perhaps?  And here is my son—­my poor son!—­broken and helpless—­perhaps for life.  We have been trying a secretary to write for him and read to him, for the blindness increases, but it has not been a success.’”