The first sign of real disintegration came from Mrs. Eveleth.  She had waited for the arrival of the man whom she looked upon now as her confidential adviser, to make the announcement that, since Miss Lucilla would no longer need her, she meant to have a home of her own.  The economies she had been able to practise during the last two years, together with a legacy from Miss van Tromp, would, when added to “her own income,” provide her with modest comfort for the rest of her days.  There was something triumphant in the way in which she proclaimed her independence of the daughter-in-law who had been the author of so many of her woes.  It was the old banker himself who brought this intelligence to Diane.

During the fortnight he had been in New York he had formed an almost daily habit of dropping in on her.  She was the more surprised at his doing so from the fact that her detachment from the rest of the circle of which she had formed a part was now complete.  She had gone to see Miss Lucilla with words of sympathy, but her reception was such that she came away with cheeks flaming.  Miss Lucilla had said nothing; she had only wept; but she had wept in a way to show that Diane herself, more than the departed Miss Regina, was the motive of her grief.  After that Diane had remained shut up in her linen-room, finding in its occupied seclusion something of the peace which the nun seeks in the cloister.

There was no one but the old man to push his way into her sanctuary, and for his visits she was grateful.  They not only relieved the tedium of her days, but they brought her news from that small world into which her most vital interests had become absorbed.

“So the old lady is set up for life on your money,” he observed, as he watched Diane hold a white table-cloth up to the light and search it for imperfections.

“It isn’t my money now; and even if it were I’d rather she had the use of it.  She would have had much more than that if it hadn’t been for me.”

“She might; and then again she mightn’t.  Who told you what would have happened—­if everything had been different from what it is?  There are people who think they would have had plenty of money if it hadn’t been for me; but that doesn’t prove they’re right.”

“In any case I’m glad she has it.”

“That’s because you’re a very foolish little woman, as I told you when you came to me three years ago.  I said then that you’d be sorry for it some day—­”

“But I’m not.”

“Tut! tut!  Don’t tell me!  Can’t I see with my own eyes?  No woman could lose her good looks as you’ve done and not know she’s made a mistake.  How old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Dear me! dear me!  You look forty.”

“I feel eighty.”

“Yes; I dare say you do.  Any one who’s got into so many scrapes as you have must feel the burden of time.  I don’t think I ever saw a young woman make such poor use of her opportunities.  Why didn’t you marry Derek Pruyn?”