To anticipate all possibility of mistake, it would be necessary that his attitude toward Mrs. Eveleth should be strictly that of the employer toward the employed.  He must ignore the circumstance of their earlier acquaintance, with its touch of something memorable which neither of them had ever been able to explain, and confine himself as far as possible, both in her interests and his own, to such relations as he held with his stenographers and his clerks.  What friendliness she required she must receive from other hands; and, doubtless, she would find sufficient.

Having intrenched himself behind his fortifications of reserve, he was able to maintain just the right shade of dignity, when, in the half-light of the midwinter afternoon, Diane glided into the big, book-lined apartment, in which the comfortable air induced through long occupancy by people of means did not banish a certain sombreness.  She entered with the subdued manner of one who has been sent for peremptorily, but who acknowledges the right of summons.  The perception of this called an impulse to apologize to Derek’s lips; but on reflection he repressed it.  It was best to assume that she would do his bidding from the first.  Standing by the fireplace, with his arm on the mantelpiece, he bowed stiffly, without offering his hand.  Diane bowed in return, keeping her own hands securely in her small black muff.

“Won’t you sit down?”

Without changing his position he indicated the large leathern chair on the other side of the hearth.  Diane sat down on the very edge—­erect, silent, submissive.  If he had feared the intrusion of the personal element into what must be strictly a business affair, it was plain that this pale, pinched little woman had forestalled him.

Yes; she was pale and pinched.  Lucilla had been right about that.  There was something in Diane’s appearance that suggested privation.  Derek had seen such a thing before among the disinherited of mankind, but never in his own rank in life.  With her air of proud gentleness, of gallant acceptance of what fate had apportioned her, she made him think of some plucky little citadel holding out against hunger.  If there was no way of showing the pity, the mingled pity and approbation, in his breast, it was at least some consolation to know that in his house she would be beyond the most terrible and elemental touch of want.

“I’ve troubled you to come and see me,” he began, with an effort to keep the note of embarrassment out of his voice, “to ask if you would be willing to accept a position in my family.”

Diane sat still and did not raise her eyes, but it seemed to him that he could detect, beneath her veil, a light of relief in her face, like a sudden gleam of sunshine.

“I’m looking for a position,” was all she said, “and if I could be of service—­”

“I’m very much in need of some one,” he explained; “though the duties of the place would be peculiar, and, perhaps, not particularly grateful.”