"Come back to heaven, Di," he retorted a little sadly, "That's where you came from, you know."
Diana shook her head.
"You did, I verily believe," she declared affectionately. "But there's only a very small slice of heaven in my composition, I'm afraid."
Stair looked down at her thoughtfully, at the clean line of the cheek curving into the pointed, determined little chin, at the sensitive, eager mouth, unconsciously sensuous in the lovely curve of its short upper-lip, at the ardent, glowing eyes—the whole face vital with the passionate demand of youth for the kingdoms of the earth.
"We've all got our share of heaven, my dear," he said at last, smiling a little. "But I'm thinking yours may need some hard chiselling of fate to bring it into prominence."
Diana wriggled her shoulders.
"It doesn't sound nice, Pobs. I don't in the least want to be chiselled into shape, it reminds one too much of the dentist."
"The gentleman who chisels out decay? You're exactly carrying out my metaphor to its bitter end," returned Stair composedly.
"Oh, Joan, do stop him," exclaimed Diana appealingly. "I'm going to church this morning, and if he lectures me like this I shall have no appetite left for spiritual things."
"I didn't know you ever had—much," replied Joan, laughing.