“That will do, Grace!”
Grace coughed discreetly and subsided.
“Is mother still lying down?” then asked Diana.
“Yes, miss. She’ll be on her bed till the dinner dressing bell rings. And Mr. May’s asleep over his newspaper in the garden.”
Again Diana laughed her clear, pretty laugh. The somnolent habits of her parents were so enlivening, and made home-life so cheerful!
“Well, all right, Grace,” she said. “If there’s nothing for me to do I shall go for a walk presently. So you’ll know what to say if I’m asked for.”
Grace assented, and then departed. Diana finished her cup of tea in meditative mood,—then, resolving to throw her retrospective thoughts to the winds, prepared to go out. It was an exceptionally fine afternoon, warm and brilliant, and instead of her navy linen gown which had seen considerable wear and tear, she put on a plain white one which became her much better than the indigo blue, and, completing her costume with a very simple straw hat and white parasol, she went downstairs and out of the house into the garden. She had meant to avoid her father, whom she saw on the lawn, under the spreading boughs of a cedar tree, seated in one rustic arm-chair, with his short legs comfortably disposed on another, and the day’s newspaper modestly spread as a coverlet over his unbuttoned waistcoat,—but an inquisitive wasp happening to buzz too near his nose he made a dart at it with one hand, and opening his eyes, perceived her white figure moving across the grass.
“Who’s that? What’s that?” he called out, sharply. “Don’t glide about like a ghost! Is it you, Diana?”
“Yes,—it’s me,” she replied, and came up beside him.
He gave her a casual look,—then sniffed and smiled sardonically.