Leonora was not in the humour to refuse her husband anything. Everything was bright and happy to her, now that she saw a means of defence provided for her against the stately Diana, whom she feared. She had recovered from her astonishment at the sudden invitation to Julius, and she saw in it a kind intention on her husband's part, for which she was grateful.
"Of course, mon ami," she answered, "I will do everything you like. Only amuse Monsieur Batiscombe for a moment, and I will run to Diana, and tell her what you wish."
"A thousand thanks!" exclaimed Marcantonio, and he turned to the task of amusing Mr. Batiscombe, more delighted than ever.
Leonora knocked rather timidly at the door of Diana's sitting-room.
"It is I," she said, through the door; "may I come in?"
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" exclaimed Diana, rising swiftly from her couch, with a bright smile. She took Leonora's hand and led her to a chair, and arranged the curtains a little, so as to make more light, and then sat down by her side.
"You must be dreadfully tired," said Leonora, "and I ought not to disturb you. I just wanted to see if you had everything you wanted."
"But everything—everything, I assure you," answered Diana. "I am so very comfortable, and the view over the sea is exquisite, really de toute beauté."
They made a wonderful contrast, as they sat side by side. Donna Diana's perfect features were more mature than Leonora's, her bearing was more noble, and her look more quiet and self-possessed. She wore a loose peignoir of white, with lace and white silk ribbons, such as none but perfect blondes can wear. But nothing could dim the dazzling whiteness of her skin, or detract from her marvellous beauty. She was calm, and statue-like, and it was only now and then that a glance from her deep grey eyes betrayed the warm and sympathising heart within. A grand, regal woman, fit to wear a crown or to have been the priestess of an ancient people. She had it all from her mother, who had been like her, though in a smaller mould, and had died, still young and beautiful, when Diana and her brother were little children. It was impossible to imagine her for a moment deprived of her perfect grace, and ease, and quiet.
Leonora was altogether more earthly. She moved well, but often impetuously. Her extraordinary vitality, when not reduced by reaction to a state of unnatural apathy, was forever seeking an outlet. She loved the light and the stir of society life, while she amused herself with reflecting on its emptiness. She was instinct with strength, and motion, and elasticity. Her skin was always fresh, whether in heat or cold, but from the enthusiasm with which she did things, she sometimes lost the smoothness and correctness—as she would have called it—of her appearance. And yet even at such times she had a strange charm and fascination of her own. As she often said, she was far less beautiful than Diana, but much more alive,—though with a life that might perhaps be less strong and enduring than Diana's. Diana was a queen—Leonora a brilliant and irresponsible princess.