Thus the first winter had gone by, until with the shifting of the environment in summer a certain change entered into the situation.  The greater freedom of country life on the Hudson made it requisite that Diane should be more consciously circumspect.  In her detachment Derek noticed first of all a new element of intention; but since it was the first sign she had given of distinguishing between him and the dumb creation, it did not displease him.  While he could not affirm that she avoided him, he saw less of her than when in town.  During those difficult moments when they had no guests and Dorothea was making visits among her friends, Diane found pretexts for slipping away to New York, on what she declared to be business of her own—­availing herself of the seclusion of the little French hostelry that had first given her shelter.

It was at times such as these that Derek began to perceive what she had become to him.  As long as she was near him he could keep his feelings within the limitations he had set for them; but in her absence he was restless and despondent till she returned.  The brutality of life, which made him master of the beauty of the country and the coolness of the hills, while it drove her to stifle in the town, stirred him with alternate waves of indignation and compassion.

There was a torrid afternoon in August when the sight of her, trudging along the dusty highway to the station, almost led him to betray himself by his curses upon fate.  Dorothea having left for Newport in the morning, Diane was, as usual, seeking the privacy of University Place for the two weeks the girl’s visit was to last.  Understanding her desire not to be alone with him for even a few hours when there was no third person in the house, Derek had taken the opportunity to motor for lunch to a friend’s house some miles away.  With the intention of not returning till after she had gone, he had ordered a carriage to be in readiness to drive her to her train; but his luncheon was scarcely ended when the thought occurred to him that, by hurrying back, he might catch a last glimpse of her before she started.

He had already half smothered her in dust when he perceived that the little woman in black, under a black parasol, was actually Diane.  To his indignant queries as to why she should be plodding her way on foot, with this scorching sun overhead, her replies were cheerful and uncomplaining.  A series of small accidents in the stable—­such had constantly happened at her own little chateau in the Oise—­having made it inadvisable to take the horses out, one of the men had conveyed her luggage to the station, while she herself preferred to walk.  She was used to the exigencies of country life, in both France and Ireland; and as for the heat, it was a detail to be scorned.  Dust, too, was only matter out of place, and a necessary concomitant of summer.  Would he not drive on, without troubling himself any more about her?