Diana colored uncomfortably as she thought of the letter.  What did the dear old man suppose she wanted the money for?  It hurt her pride that she must appear in this spendthrift light to eyes so honest and scrupulous.

But what could she do?  Fanny poured out ugly reports of her mother’s financial necessities to Muriel Colwood; Mrs. Colwood repeated them to Diana.  And the Mertons were Diana’s only kinsfolk.  The claim of blood pressed her hard.

Meanwhile, with a shrinking distaste, she had tried to avoid the personal discussion of the matter with Fanny.  The task of curbing the girl’s impatience, day after day, had fallen to Mrs. Colwood.

Diana was still standing in a reverie before the “Annunciation” when the drawing-room door opened.  As she looked round her, she drew herself sharply together with the movement of a sudden and instinctive antipathy.

“That’s all right,” said Fanny Merton, surveying the room with satisfaction, and closing the door behind her.  “I thought I’d find you alone.”

Diana remained nervously standing before the picture, awaiting her cousin, her eyes wider than usual, one hand at her throat.

“Look here,” said Fanny, approaching her, “I want to talk to you.”

Diana braced herself.  “All right.”  She threw a look at the clock.  “Just give me time to get tidy before lunch.”

“Oh, there’s an hour—­time enough!”

Diana drew forward an arm-chair for Fanny, and settled herself into the corner of a sofa.  Her dog jumped up beside her, and laid his nose on her lap.

Fanny held herself straight.  Her color under the powder had heightened a little.  The two girls confronted each other, and, vaguely, perhaps, each felt the strangeness of the situation.  Fanny was twenty, Diana twenty-three.  They were of an age when girls are generally under the guidance or authority of their elders; comparatively little accustomed, in the normal family, to discuss affairs or take independent decisions.  Yet here they met, alone and untrammelled; as hostess and guest in the first place; as kinswomen, yet comparative strangers to each other, and conscious of a secret dislike, each for the other.  On the one side, an exultant and partly cruel consciousness of power; on the other, feelings of repugnance and revolt, only held in check by the forces of a tender and scrupulous nature.

Fanny cleared her throat.

“Well, of course, Mrs. Colwood’s told me all you’ve been saying to her.  And I don’t say I’m surprised.”

Diana opened her large eyes.

“Surprised at what?”

“Surprised—­well!—­surprised you didn’t see your way all at once, and that kind of thing.  I know I’d want to ask a lot of questions—­shouldn’t I, just!  Why, that’s what I expected.  But, you see, my time in England’s getting on.  I’ve nothing to say to my people, and they bother my life out every mail.”