“Better than the seaside?” went on Shan’t.
Still Diana did not answer.
“Better than Hastings?” persisted Shan’t.
“What did you say, Shan’t?”
“I said—did you like Scotland best or—Hastings, where we go to the seaside sometimes?”
“I like Hastings best,” said Diana, and she caught Shan’t in her arms; “but, darling, you must never tell any one—promise.”
“Scotland wouldn’t mind, because you do like it, too, don’t you?”
“I love it.”
“I wish I could go there!”
Diana didn’t see why she shouldn’t. She would write and suggest it to Uncle Marcus: she had to write and explain, so far as she could, her running away. He would be very angry, she knew. She wrote: