“Oh, you must—­you must!” she cried, suddenly; “don’t let’s remember anything but that we were friends—­that you were so kind to me—­you and Mr. Oliver—­in the spring.  I can’t bear sitting there at Beechcote doing nothing—­amusing myself—­when you—­and Mr. Oliver—­”

She stopped, forcing back the tears that would drive their way up, studying in dismay the lined and dwindled face before her.  Lady Lucy colored deeply.  During the months which had elapsed since the broken engagement, she, even in her remote and hostile distance, had become fully aware of the singular prestige, the homage of a whole district’s admiration and tenderness, which had gathered round Diana.  She had resented the prestige and the homage, as telling against Oliver, unfairly.  Yet as she looked at her visitor she felt the breath of their ascendency.  Tender courage and self-control—­the woman, where the girl had been—­a nature steadied and ennobled—­these facts and victories spoke from Diana’s face, her touch; they gave even something of maternity to her maiden youth.

“You come to a sad house,” said Lady Lucy, holding her away a little.

“I know.”  The voice was quivering and sweet.  “But he will recover—­of course he’ll recover!”

Lady Lucy shook her head.

“He seems to have no will to recover.”

Then her limbs failed her.  She sank into a chair by the fire, and there was Diana on a stool at her feet—­timidly daring—­dropping soft caresses on the hand she held, drawing out the tragic history of the preceding weeks, bringing, indeed, to this sad and failing mother what she had perforce done without till now—­that electric sympathy of women with each other which is the natural relief and sustenance of the sex.

Lady Lucy forgot her letters—­forgot, in her mind-weariness, all the agitating facts about this girl that she had once so vividly remembered.  She had not the strength to battle and hold aloof.  Who now could talk of marrying or giving in marriage?  They met under a shadow of death; the situation between them reduced to bare elemental things.

“You’ll stay and dine with me?” she said at last, feebly.  “We’ll send you home.  The carriages have nothing to do.  And”—­she straightened herself—­“you must see Oliver.  He will know that you are here.”

Diana said nothing.  Lady Lucy rose and left the room.  Diana leaned her head against the chair in which the older lady had been sitting, and covered her eyes.  Her whole being was gathered into the moment of waiting.

Lady Lucy returned and beckoned.  Once more Diana found herself hurrying along the ugly, interminable corridors with which she had been so familiar in the spring.  The house had never seemed to her so forlorn.  They paused at an open door, guarded by a screen.

“Go in, please,” said Lady Lucy, making room for her to pass.

Diana entered, shaken with inward fear.  She passed the screen, and there beyond it was an invalid couch—­a man lying on it—­and a hand held out to her.