He gave her an eloquent look.
“I wanted you to read it first.”
She bent her head in graceful acknowledgment, and moved slowly across to the fire, drawing off her long, soft gloves. She was thin, but the long lines of her slight figure had the slender grace and delicate suppleness of the Reynolds portrait that haunted his memory. Her head, small and spirited and covered with a shadowy mass of soft, brown hair, was set on a slender, white throat which carried it proudly, with an air of stateliness and pride that became her, even in the simple, dark dress she wore.
Faunce followed her with a glance that neglected Fanny as she bent over her little table again. Even Diane seemed for the moment to forget the younger girl. Her clear eyes turned on Faunce, and she made an evident effort to speak with ease.
“You kept his diary, too?”
He assented.
“A part of it. He gave it to me when we left the ship. The rest was lost with him.”
Diane turned sharply away, averting her face as she pretended to look into the fire.
“It’s wonderful that you—preserved so much! As soon as I can, I’ll read it.”
“Yours is the first copy—the author’s; the publishers sent it to me last night, and I took it over as soon as possible.”