The vision of visits on Sundays faded away, the clockwork toys were put back in the cupboard, they wouldn’t go—not one of them.
“Your father? Is he your ideal?”
“Of course—there is no one like him.”
“And for this man who is to be so good, you will keep yourself—good?”
“What do you mean?” asked Diana passionately, her eyes shining, her cheeks aflame.
In a moment Marcus was humble, explaining eagerly that he was only trying to find out—if these friendships between boys and girls were good things—and wise? He had been frightened—
“By dowagers,” said Diana; “why do you go and sit among them and gossip? Why don’t you say straight out, ‘Diana, would you let a man kiss you?’ Say it—be quick—or I shall go.”
She held the speaking-tube to her lips, threatening; Marcus was dumb.
“Stop!” she commanded, and Tooke, the chauffeur, obeyed.
She opened the door of the car and stepped out—into the street. It all happened in a second before Marcus realized what she was going to do. He followed her as quickly as he could, but she was too quick for him. What a sight for London—he thought—at four o’clock on a summer’s morning: the day dawning—or dawned—and into the arms of the rising sun, like a leaf blown by the wind, hardly seeming to touch the ground, flew Diana—to Marcus’s astonished vision a whirl of white tulle and long legs; and after her ran he—Marcus Maitland, uncle, bachelor, taxpayer, and citizen. Behind him he heard the hoot of a horn and the car stopped. “Better get in, sir; you can’t go the pace and Miss Diana will tire. Very good, sir—” This at an impatient gesture from Mr. Maitland, and Marcus went on, Tooke not driving fast enough to catch the niece fleeing, or slow enough to witness the discomfiture of the uncle pursuing. When Marcus arrived at his door he presumed he would find a beaten and humbled niece, unable to get in: but he found the door wide open, a detestable habit of hers: she must have had her key. He went into the hall—listened. Not a sound; he stole upstairs and listened. He heard a sound of running water—it was Diana’s bath filling. He was very, very angry with her. She was like her aunt—exactly like; he had known that aunt was a violent woman.