Five or ten minutes afterward, a brougham drove up to the door of Lytchett, and a small lady emerged. She had rung the bell, and was waiting on the steps, when a pony-carriage also turned into the Lytchett avenue and drew near rapidly.
A girl in a shady hat was driving it.
"The very creature!" cried Lady Niton, under her breath, smartly tapping her tiny boot with the black cane she carried, and referring apparently to some train of meditation in which she had been just engaged. She waved to her own coachman to be off, and stood awaiting Diana.
"How do you do, Miss Mallory? Are you invited? I'm not."
Diana descended, and they shook hands. They had not met since the evening at Tallyn when Diana, in her fresh beauty, had been the gleaming princess, and Lady Niton the friendly godmother, of so promising a fairy tale. The old woman looked at her curiously, as they stood in the drawing-room together, while the footman went off to find Sir James. Frail--dark lines under the eyes--a look as of long endurance--a smile that was a mere shield and concealment for the heart beneath--alack!
And there was no comfort to be got out of calling down fire from heaven on the author of this change, since it had fallen so abundantly already!
"Sit down; you look tired," said the old lady, in her piping, peremptory voice. "Have you been here all the summer?"
"Yes--since June."