“Diana.”
Now when this letter reached Captain the Honourable Reginald Cleeve at his club, to which it was addressed, and where he had dined on the evening of the day it was posted, which was the next but one to the day of his interview with Diana, it was brought to him in the smoking-room, and as his eyes ran over it he uttered an involuntary oath of such force that even men inured to violent language looked up, amused and inquisitive.
“What’s up?” asked an acquaintance seated near him.
“Oh, nothing! A dun!” he answered,—then, calming down, he lit a cigar. After a few puffs at it he took up a newspaper—read a paragraph or two—then laid it down.
“By the way,” he said, to the man who had spoken—“the famous beauty—Diana May—is off to Paris.”
These words created a certain stir in the smoking-room. Several men looked up.
“Oh, well! All lovely women go to Paris for their clothes!”
“Pardon!” said a dark-visaged young man, coming forward from a corner where he had been writing a letter, and speaking with a foreign accent—“Did I hear you mention a lady’s name—Diana May?”
Cleeve glanced him over with military frigidity.
“I did mention that name—yes.”