Diana said nothing.  She went to the writing-table and began to arrange some letters.  Fanny looked at her.

“I say, Diana!—­perhaps you won’t want me to stay here after—­You seem to have taken against me.”

Diana turned.

“No,” she said, faintly.  Then, with a little sob:  “I thought of nothing but your coming.”

Fanny flushed.

“Well, of course you’ve been very kind to me—­and all that sort of thing.  I wasn’t saying you hadn’t been.  Except—­Well, no, there’s one thing I do think you’ve been rather nasty about!”

The girl threw back her head defiantly.

Diana’s pale face questioned her.

“I was talking to your maid yesterday,” said Fanny, slowly, “and she says you’re going to stay at some smart place next week, and you’ve been getting a new dress for it.  And you’ve never said a word to me about it—­let alone ask me to go with you!”

Diana looked at her amazed.

“You mean—­I’m going to Tallyn!”

“That’s it,” said Fanny, reproachfully.  “And you know I don’t get a lot of fun at home—­and I might as well be seeing people—­and going about with you—­though I do have to play second fiddle.  You’re rich, of course—­everybody’s nice to you—­”

She paused.  Diana, struck dumb, could find, for the moment, nothing to say.  The red named in Fanny’s cheeks, and she turned away with a flounce.

“Oh, well, you’d better say it at once—­you’re ashamed of me!  I haven’t had your blessed advantages!  Do you think I don’t know that!”

In the girl’s heightened voice and frowning brow there was a touch of fury, of goaded pride, that touched Diana with a sudden remorse.  She ran toward her cousin—­appealing: 

“I’m very sorry, Fanny.  I—­I don’t like to leave you—­but they are my great friends—­and Lady Lucy, though she’s very kind, is very old-fashioned.  One couldn’t take the smallest liberty with her.  I don’t think I could ask to take you—­when they are quite by themselves—­and the house is only half mounted.  But Mrs. Colwood and I had been thinking of several things that might amuse you—­and I shall only be two nights away.”

“I don’t want any amusing—­thanks!” said Fanny, walking to the door.

She closed it behind her.  Diana clasped her hands overhead in a gesture of amazement.

“To quarrel with me about that—­after—­the other thing!”

No!—­not Tallyn!—­not Tallyn!—­anywhere, anything, but that!

Was she proud?—­snobbish?  Her eyes filled with tears, but her will hardened.  What was to be gained?  Fanny would not like them, nor they her.

* * * * *

The luncheon-party had been arranged for Mr. Birch, Fanny’s train acquaintance.  Diana had asked the Roughsedges, explaining the matter, with a half-deprecating, half-humorous face, to the comfortable ear of Mrs. Roughsedge.  Explanation was necessary, for this particular young man was only welcome in those houses of the neighborhood which were not socially dainty.  Mrs. Roughsedge understood at once—­laughed heartily—­accepted with equal heartiness—­and then, taking Diana’s hand, she said, with a shining of her gray eye: