She stood perfectly still, a statue of Disdain, tall, beautiful and furious, with compressed lips and head held high. Mr. Bettison broke off and mopped his brow, glaring at her.
Startled Thomas appeared at the door.
"Did you ring, madam?"
"Show Mr. Bettison out," was the proud answer.
The Squire got up awkwardly.
"I am sure I apologise if I said aught that was untrue," he mumbled. "I hope you will not take my words amiss—"
"I shall try to forget your insults, sir," she replied. "The door, Thomas!"
Mr. Bettison went out, and his step had lost some of its self-confident swagger.
For a full minute after the great front door had shut behind him, Diana stood where she was, and then the colour suddenly flamed in her cheeks, and she turned and ran out of the room, up the stairs, to her own chamber, where she indulged in a luxurious fit of crying. From this enjoyable occupation she was interrupted by a rap on the door, and Miss Betty's voice desiring to know if she was within.
She instantly started up and with hasty fingers straightened her tumbled curls.