“Good-bye, dear child!” he said. “Take care of yourself! Be quite good! I—I will come and see you at your—your hotel.”
Diana laughed again.
“I’m sure you will! Why, Pa dear, you won’t be able to keep away! The antique Mrs. Ross-Percival, whom you so much admire, is not ‘the’ only beautiful woman in London! Do remember that! Ta-ta!”
The car moved rapidly off, leaving James Polydore in a chaotic condition of mind. He was, of course, absolutely convinced that the girl who called herself his daughter Diana was the victim of a craze, but how or when she became thus obsessed was a mystery to him. He re-entered his house to struggle with the wordy reproaches of his better-half, and to talk the matter over privately with the “companion secretary,” Lucy Preston, whose attention he thought more safely assured by a tête-à-tête, which apparently obliged him to put his arm round her waist and indulge in sundry other agreeable endearments. But the exquisite beauty of the “escaped lunatic” haunted him, and he made up his mind to see her again at all costs, mad or sane, and make searching inquiries concerning her.
Diana herself, speeding back to her hotel, realised afresh the immensity of the solitude into which her new existence plunged her. Her own father and mother did not recognise her,—her most trusted friend, Sophy Lansing, refused to acknowledge her identity—well!—she was indeed “born again”—born of strange elements in which things human played no part, and she must needs accept the position. The saving grace of it all was that she felt no emotion,—neither sadness nor joy—neither fear nor shame;—she was, or she felt herself to be a strange personality apart from what is understood as human life, yet conscious of a life superior to that of humanity. If a ray of light hovering above a world of shadows could be imagined as an entity, a being, such would most accurately have described her curious individuality.
That same evening her banker called upon her, bringing with him a pleasant motherly-looking lady whom he introduced as Mrs. Beresford, a widow, whose straitened circumstance made her very anxious to obtain some position of trust, with an adequate salary. Her agreeable and kindly manners, gentle voice, and undeniable good breeding impressed Diana at once in her favour,—and then and there a settlement between them was effected, much to the relief and satisfaction of the worthy banker, who, without any hesitation, said that he “could not rest till he felt sure Miss May was under good protection and care”—at which she laughed a little but expressed her gratitude as prettily as any “girl” might be expected to do. She invited him and her newly-engaged chaperone to dine with her, and they all three went down to the hotel dining-room together, where, of course, Diana’s amazing beauty made her the observed of all observers. Especially did Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve, seated at a table with an alarmingly stout wife and two equally alarmingly plain daughters, stare openly and admiringly at the fair enchantress with the wonderful sea-blue eyes and dazzling complexion, and deeply did he ruminate in his mind as to how he could best approach her, and ask whether she happened to be any relative to the “Diana May” he had once known. He made an opportunity after dinner, when she passed through the lounge hall with her companions, and paused for a moment to look at the “Programme of Entertainments in London” displayed for the information of visitors.
“Pray excuse me!” he said—“I chanced to hear your name—may I ask——”
“Anything!” Diana answered, smiling, while Mrs. Beresford, already alert, came closer.
“I used to know,” went on the Captain, becoming rather confused and hesitating—“a Miss Diana May—I wondered if you were any relative——?”
“Yes, indeed!” said Diana, cheerfully—“I am!—quite a near relative! Do come and see me to-morrow, will you? I have often heard of Captain Cleeve!—and his dear wife!—and his sweet girls! Yes!—do come! Mrs. Beresford and I will be so pleased!”