“Never mind whether it does or not,” said Sophy. “I can’t believe he wants an old frump! You may not believe me, Di, but you look perfectly fascinating in that gown—almost young again!”
Diana’s blue eyes clouded with a touch of sadness. She sighed a little.
“Almost!—not quite!” she answered. “But—‘dress does make a difference!’—there’s no doubt of it! These last few years I’m not ashamed to say I’ve longed for pretty clothes—I suppose it’s the dying spirit of youth trying to take a last caper! And now, with all these vanity purchases, I am horribly in your debt. Dear Sophy, how shall I ever repay you?”
“Don’t know and don’t care!” said Sophy, recklessly. “I’m not a grasping creditor. And something tells me you are going to be very rich!—perhaps this man Dimitrius is a millionaire and wants a clever woman for his wife—a sort of Madame Curie to help him with his experiments——”
“Then I shall not suit him,” interrupted Diana, “for I never intend to be wife to any man. First of all, I’m too old—secondly, if I were young again, I wouldn’t. It isn’t worth while!”
“But didn’t you say you wanted to be loved?” queried Sophy.
“Does marriage always fulfil that need?” counter-queried Diana.
They exchanged glances—smiled—shrugged shoulders and dropped the conversation.
Two days later Diana left England for Geneva.