“He didn’t lose much time in coming to see you,” she remarked.
“No—did he?” replied Diana, briskly. “So the beastly Brown girl didn’t make much impression, anyway.”
“Well? What are you going to do about it?” Rose inquired.
Diana sighed again. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed, impatiently. “I do hate to be grown up—it’s such a bother.” Despite the childishness of the words, Rose was struck by the ring of real dismay in the girl’s voice.
“Why, dear?” she said.
For a moment Diana did not answer, then she said, suddenly, “Because I see what life is like. It’s just like one of those days that are so brilliant at first, and then cloud over and get all gray. Not stormy or anything, you know,—just gray.”
There was a tremble in her voice which touched the elder woman. She recalled the chilling breath from real life which had first crept into the paradise of her own youthful imagination. She remembered how, before it, the flowers drooped, and the sunshine faded. It was a searching, unpleasant wind.
“Never glad, confident morning again?” she said, softly, after a moment. “But, my dear, the sun comes out again sometimes, even on a gray day.”
“Yes,” Diana reluctantly agreed; “but then it’s afternoon—perhaps evening.”
“Wait till you get a little more grown up,” returned Rose, smiling. “You’ll think better of afternoon. In the meantime, cheer up; there’s still all the morning for you.”