“I liked you!” said Marion Vincent, simply.  “I liked you as you talked last night.  Only I wanted to add some more pictures to your picture-book. Your set—­the popular one—­is called The Glories of England.  There is another—­I recommend it to you:  The Shames of England.”

“You think poverty a disgrace?” murmured Diana, held by the glowing fanatical look of the speaker.

“Our poverty is a disgrace—­the life of our poor is a disgrace.  What does the Empire matter—­what do Afghan campaigns matter—­while London is rotten?  However” (she smiled again, and caressed Diana’s hand), “will you make friends with me?”

“Is it worth while for you?” said Diana, laughing.  “I shall always prefer my picture-book to yours, I am afraid.  And—­I am not poor—­and I don’t give all my money away.”

Miss Vincent surveyed her gayly.

“Well, I come here,” (she looked significantly round the luxurious room), “and I am very good friends with the Marshams.  Oliver Marsham is one of the persons from whom I hope most.”

“Not in pulling down wealth—­and property!” cried Diana.

“Why not?  Every revolution has its Philippe Egalite Oh, it will come slowly—­it will come slowly,” said the other, quietly.  “And of course there will be tragedy—­there always is—­in everything.  But not, I hope, for you—­never for you!” And once more her hand dropped softly on Diana’s.

“You were happy to-night?—­you enjoyed the dance?”

The question, so put, with such a look, from another mouth, would have been an impertinence.  Diana shrank, but could not resent it.  Yet, against her will, she flushed deeply.

“Yes.  It was delightful.  I did not expect to enjoy it so much, but—­”

“But you did!  That’s well.  That’s good!”

Marion Vincent rose feebly.  And as she stood, leaning on the chair, she touched the folds of Diana’s white dress.

“When shall I see you again?—­and that dress?”

“I shall be in London in May,” said Diana, eagerly—­May I come then?  You must tell me where.”

“Ah, you won’t come to Bethnal Green in that dress.  What a pity!”

Diana helped her to her room, where they shook hands and parted.  Then Diana came back to her own quarters.  She had put out the electric light for Miss Vincent’s sake.  The room was lit only by the fire.  In the full-length mirror of the toilet-table Diana saw her own white reflection, and the ivy leaves in her hair.  The absence of her mourning was first a pain; then the joy of the evening surged up again.  Oh, was it wrong, was it wrong to be happy—­in this world “where men sit and hear each other groan”?  She clasped her hands to her soft breast, as though defending the warmth, the hope that were springing there, against any dark protesting force that might threaten to take them from her.

CHAPTER VI