The girl turned a steady face on her companion.  Mrs. Fotheringham was conscious of a certain secret admiration.  But her own point of view had nothing to do with Miss Drake’s.

“It amuses him to talk to her,” she said, sharply; “I am sure I hope it won’t come to anything more.  It would be very unsuitable.”

“Why?  Politics?  Oh! that doesn’t matter a bit.”

“I beg your pardon.  Oliver is becoming an important man, and it will never do for him to hamper himself with a wife who cannot sympathize with any of his enthusiasms and ideals.”

Miss Drake shrugged her shoulders.

“He would convert her—­and he likes triumphing.  Oh!  Cousin Isabel!—­look at that lamp!”

An oil lamp in an inner drawing-room, placed to illuminate an easel portrait of Lady Lucy, was smoking atrociously.  The two ladies’ flew toward it, and were soon lost to sight and hearing amid a labyrinth of furniture and palms.

The place they left vacant was almost immediately filled by Oliver Marsham himself, who came in studying a pencilled paper, containing the names of the guests.  He and his mother had not found the dinner very easy to arrange.  Upon his heels followed Mr. Ferrier, who hurried to the fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

“I never felt this house cold before.  Has anything happened to your calorifere?  These rooms are too big!  By-the-way, Oliver”—­Mr. Ferrier turned his back to the blaze, and looked round him—­“when are you going to reform this one?”

Oliver surveyed it.

“Of course I should like nothing better than to make a bonfire of it all!  But mother—­”

“Of course—­of course!  Ah, well, perhaps when you marry, my dear boy!  Another reason for making haste!”

The older man turned a laughing eye on his companion.  Marsham merely smiled, a little vaguely, without reply.  Ferrier observed him, then began abstractedly to study the carpet.  After a moment he looked up—­

“I like your little friend, Oliver—­I like her particularly!”

“Miss Mallory?  Yes, I saw you had been making acquaintance.  Well?”

His voice affected a light indifference, but hardly succeeded.

“A very attractive personality!—­fresh and womanly—­no nonsense—­heart enough for a dozen.  But all the same the intellect is hungry, and wants feeding.  No one will ever succeed with her, Oliver, who forgets she has a brain.  Ah! here she is!”

For the door had been thrown open, and Diana entered, followed by Mrs. Colwood.  She came in slowly, her brow slightly knit, and her black eyes touched with the intent seeking look which was natural to them.  Her dress of the freshest simplest white fell about her in plain folds.  It made the same young impression as the childish curls on the brow and temples, and both men watched her with delight, Marsham went to meet her.

“Will you sit on my left?  I must take in Lady Niton.”