What could she do?  The little lady gave her days and nights to the question, and saw no way out.  Sometimes she hoped that Diana’s personality had made an impression on this sinister guest; she traced a grudging consciousness in Fanny of her cousin’s generosity and charm.  But this perception only led to fresh despondency.  Whenever Fanny softened, it showed itself in a claim to intimacy, as sudden and as violent as her ill-temper.  She must be Diana’s first and dearest—­be admitted to all Diana’s secrets and friendships.  Then on Diana’s side, inevitable withdrawal, shrinking, self-defence—­and on Fanny’s a hotter and more acrid jealousy.

Meanwhile, as Mrs. Colwood knew, Diana had been engaged in correspondence with her solicitors, who had been giving her some prudent and rather stringent advice on the subject of income and expenditure.  This morning, so Mrs. Colwood believed, a letter had arrived.

Presently she stole out of her room to the head of the stairs.  There she remained, pale and irresolute, for a little while, listening to the sounds in the house.  But the striking of the hall clock, the sighing of a stormy wind round the house, and, occasionally, a sound of talking in the drawing-room, was all she heard.

* * * * *

Diana had been busy in the hanging of some last pictures in the drawing-room—­photographs from Italian pictures and monuments.  They had belonged to her father, and had been the dear companions of her childhood.  Each, as she handled it, breathed its own memory; of the little villa on the Portofino road, with its green shutters, and rooms closed against the sun; or of the two short visits to Lucca and Florence she had made with her father.

Among the photographs was one of the “Annunciation” by Donatello, which glorifies the southern wall of Santa Croce.  Diana had just hung it in a panelled corner, where its silvery brilliance on dark wood made a point of pleasure for the eye.  She lingered before it, wondering whether it would please him when he came.  Unconsciously her life had slipped into this habit of referring all its pains and pleasures to the unseen friend—­holding with him that constant dialogue of the heart without which love neither begins nor grows.

Yet she no longer dreamed of discussing Fanny, and the perplexities Fanny had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham.  Money affairs must be kept to one’s self; and somehow Fanny’s visit had become neither more nor less than a money affair.

That morning Diana had received a letter from old Mr. Riley, the head of the firm of Riley & Bonner—­a letter which was almost a lecture.  If the case were indeed urgent, said Mr. Riley, if the money must be found, she could, of course, borrow on her securities, and the firm would arrange it for her.  But Mr. Riley, excusing himself as her father’s old friend, wrote with his own hand to beg her to consider the matter further.  Her expenses had lately been many, and some of her property might possibly decline in value during the next few years.  A prudent management of her affairs was really essential.  Could not the money be gradually saved out of income?