The eulogy was exalted.  Lady Dunstane made a little mouth for Oh, in correction of the transcendental touch, though she remembered their foregone conversations upon men—­strange beings that they are!—­and understood Diana’s meaning.

‘Really! really! honour!’ Diana emphasized her extravagant praise, to print it fast.  ‘Hear him speak of Ireland.’

‘Would he not speak of Ireland in a tone to catch the Irishwoman?’

’He is past thoughts of catching, dearest.  At that age men are pools of fish, or what you will:  they are not anglers.  Next year, if you invite us, we will come again.’

‘But you will come to stay in the Winter?’

‘Certainly.  But I am speaking of one of my holidays.’

They kissed fervently.  The lady mounted; the grey and portly lord followed her; Sir Lukin flourished his whip, and Emma was left to brood over her friend’s last words:  ‘One of my holidays.’  Not a hint to the detriment of her husband had passed.  The stray beam balefully illuminating her marriage slipped from her involuntarily.  Sir Lukin was troublesome with his ejaculations that evening, and kept speculating on the time of the arrival of the four-in-hand in London; upon which he thought a great deal depended.  They had driven out of town early, and if they drove back late they would not be seen, as all the cacklers were sure then to be dressing for dinner, and he would not pass the Clubs.  ’I couldn’t suggest it,’ he said.  ’But Dannisburgh’s an old hand.  But they say he snaps his fingers at tattle, and laughs.  Well, it doesn’t matter for him, perhaps, but a game of two . . . .  Oh! it’ll be all right.  They can’t reach London before dusk.  And the cat’s away.’

’It’s more than ever incomprehensible to me how she could have married that man,’ said his wife.

‘I’ve long since given it up,’ said he.

Diana wrote her thanks for the delightful welcome, telling of her drive home to smoke and solitude, with a new host of romantic sensations to keep her company.  She wrote thrice in the week, and the same addition of one to the ordinary number next week.  Then for three weeks not a line.  Sir Lukin brought news from London that Warwick had returned, nothing to explain the silence.  A letter addressed to The Crossways was likewise unnoticed.  The supposition that they must be visiting on a round, appeared rational; but many weeks elapsed, until Sir Lukin received a printed sheet in the superscription of a former military comrade, who had marked a paragraph.  It was one of those journals, now barely credible, dedicated to the putrid of the upper circle, wherein initials raised sewer-lamps, and Asmodeus lifted a roof, leering hideously.  Thousands detested it, and fattened their crops on it.  Domesticated beasts of superior habits to the common will indulge themselves with a luxurious roll in carrion, for a revival of their original instincts.  Society was largely a purchaser.