“What did you really come to England for?” said Diana, in a low voice.  Her attitude, curled up among the cushions of the sofa, gave her an almost childish air.  Fanny, on the other hand, resplendent in her scarlet dress and high coiffure, might have been years older than her cousin.  And any stranger watching the face in which the hardness of an “old campaigner” already strove with youth, would have thought her, and not Diana, the mistress of the house.

At Diana’s question, Fanny’s eyes flickered a moment.

“Oh, well, I had lots of things in my mind.  But it was the money that mattered most.”

“I see,” murmured Diana.

Fanny fidgeted a little with one of the three bead necklaces which adorned her.  Then she broke out: 

“Look here, Diana, you’ve never been poor in your life, so you don’t know what it’s like being awfully hard up.  But ever since father died, mother’s had a frightful lot of trouble—­all of us to keep, and the boys’ schooling to pay, and next to nothing to do it on.  Father left everything in a dreadful muddle.  He never had a bit of sense—­”

Diana made a sudden movement.  Fanny looked at her astonished, expecting her to speak.  Diana, however, said nothing, and the girl resumed: 

“I mean, in business.  He’d got everything into a shocking state, and instead of six hundred a year for us—­as we’d always been led on to expect—­well, there wasn’t three!  Then, you know, Uncle Mallory used to send us money.  Well” (she cleared her throat again and looked away from Diana), “about a year before he died he and father fell out about something—­so that didn’t come in any more.  Then we thought perhaps he’d remember us in his will.  And that was another disappointment.  So, you see, really mother didn’t know where to turn.”

“I suppose papa thought he had done all he could,” said Diana, in a voice which tried to keep quite steady.  “He never denied any claim he felt just.  I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa.  But, of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha.”

At the words “claim” and “just” there was a quick change of expression in Fanny’s eyes.  She broke out angrily:  “Well, you really don’t know about it, Diana, so it’s no good talking.  And I’m not going to rake up old things—­”

“But if I don’t know,” said Diana, interrupting, “hadn’t you better tell me?  Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree?  And why did you think papa ought to have left you money?” She bent forward insistently.  There was a dignity—­perhaps also a touch of haughtiness—­in her bearing which exasperated the girl beside her.  The haughtiness was that of one who protects the dead.  But Fanny’s mind was not one that perceived the finer shades.

“Well, I’m not going to say!” said Fanny, with vehemence.  “But I can tell you, mother has a claim!—­and Uncle Mallory ought to have left us something!”

The instant the words were out she regretted them.  Diana abandoned her childish attitude.  She drew herself together, and sat upright on the edge of the sofa.  The color had come flooding back hotly into her cheeks, and the slightly frowning look produced by the effort to see the face before her distinctly gave a peculiar intensity to the eyes.