"Through the election?"
"Yes." Diana turned her face away. Lady Niton could see the extreme delicacy to which the profile had fined down, the bluish or purple shadows here and there on the white skin. Something glittered in the old woman's eyes. She put out a hand from the queer flounced mantle, made out of an ancient evening dress, in which she was arrayed, and touched Diana's.
"You know--you've heard--about those poor things at Tallyn?"
Diana made a quick movement. Her eyes were on the speaker.
"How is Mr. Marsham?"
Lady Niton shook her head. She opened a hand-bag on her wrist, took out a letter, and put on her eye-glasses.
"This is Lucy--arrived this morning. It don't sound well. 'Come when you can, my dear Elizabeth--you will be very welcome. But I do not know how I have the courage to ask you. We are a depressing pair, Oliver and I. Oliver has been in almost constant pain this last week. If it goes on we must try morphia. But before that we shall see another doctor. I dread to think of morphia. Once begin it, and what will be the end? I sit here alone a great deal--thinking. How long did that stone take to throw?--a few seconds, perhaps? And here is my son--my poor son!--broken and helpless--perhaps for life. We have been trying a secretary to write for him and read to him, for the blindness increases, but it has not been a success.'"
Diana rose abruptly and walked to the window, where she stood, motionless--looking out--her back turned to Lady Niton. Her companion glanced at her--lifted her eyebrows--hesitated--and finally put the letter back into her pocket. There was an awkward silence, when Diana suddenly returned to Lady Niton's side.
"Where is Miss Drake?" she said, sharply. "Is the marriage put off?"
"Marriage!" Lady Niton laughed. "Alicia and Oliver? H'm. I don't think we shall hear much more of that!"