“Oh, then that’s why her face seemed so familiar!” exclaimed Diana, a light breaking in upon her.  “I mean Miss de Gervais’—­not the chaperon’s.  Of course I must have seen her picture in the illustrated papers dozens of times.”

“And the man who was with them is Max Errington, who writes nearly all the plays in which she takes part,” chimed in Joan.  “He’s supposed to be in love with her.  That piece of information I acquired from Mrs. Mowbray.”

“I detest Mrs. Mowbray,” said Diana, with sudden viciousness.  “She’s the sort of person who has nothing whatever to talk about and spends hours doing it.”

The others laughed.

“She’s rather a gas-bag, I must admit,” acknowledged Stair.  “But, you know, a country doctor’s wife is usually the emporium for all the local gossip.  It’s expected of her.”

“Then I’m sure Mrs. Mowbray will never disappoint any one.  She fully comes up to expectations,” observed Diana grimly.

“I suppose we shall have to call on these new people at Red Gables, Dad?” asked Joan, after a brief interval.

Diana bent her head suddenly over her plate to hide the scarlet flush which flew into her cheeks at the suggestion.  She would not call upon them—­a thousand times no!  Max Errington had shown her very distinctly in what estimation he held the honour of her friendship, and he should never have the chance of believing she had tried to thrust it on him.

“Well”—­the Rector was replying leisurely to Joan’s inquiry—­“I understand they are only going to be at Red Gables now and then—­when Miss de Gervais wants a rest from her professional work, I expect.  But still, as they have come to our church and are strangers in the district, it would perhaps be neighbourly to call, wouldn’t it?”

“Can’t you call on them, Pobs?” suggested Diana, “A sort of ‘rectorial’ visit, you know.  That would surely be sufficient.”

The Sector hesitated.

“I don’t know about that, Di.  Don’t you think it would look rather unfriendly on the part of you girls?  Rather snubby, eh?”

That was precisely what Diana, had thought, and the reflection had afforded her no small satisfaction.  She wanted to hit back—­and hit hard—­and now Pobs’ kindly, hospitable nature was unconsciously putting the brake on the wheel of retribution.

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of indifference.

“Oh, well, you and Joan can call.  I don’t think actresses, and authors who love them and write plays for them, are much in my line,” she replied distantly.

It would seem as though Joan’s dictum that presentiments, like dreams, go by contraries, had been founded upon the rock of experience, for, in truth, Diana’s premonition that something delightful was about to happen to her had been fulfilled in a sorry fashion.

CHAPTER VI

THE AFTERMATH OF AN ADVENTURE