She rose with difficulty from the table where she was forcing herself to write a letter. Had she followed her own will she would have been up at her usual time and down to breakfast. But she had turned faint while dressing, and Mrs. Colwood had persuaded her to let some tea be brought up-stairs.
Fanny came in, half closing the door.
"Well, I'm off," she said, flushing. "I dare say you won't want to see me again."
Diana came feebly forward, clinging to the chairs.
"It wasn't your fault. I must have known--some time."
Fanny looked at her uneasily.
"Well, of course, that's true. But I dare say I--well I'm no good at beating about the bush, never was! And I was in a temper, too--that was at the bottom of it."
Diana made no reply. Her eyes, magnified by exhaustion and pallor, seemed to be keeping a pitiful shrinking watch lest she should be hurt again--past bearing. It was like the shrinking of a child that has been tortured, from its tormentor.
"You are going to London?"
"Yes. You remember those Devonshire people I went to stay with? One of the girls is up in London with her aunt. I'm going to board with them a bit."