She stood with Guy in the hall; he could stand with crutches now, and they all came and shook hands with them. Old Joseph came, and Mathew, both their sons had been killed, and the Elliots from the farm, whose son was missing, like Hugo. The young men were not back, those who were still alive, and the girls were mostly away, in factories and shops, but all the old people came, and I thought how old they looked.
I thought they liked Diana, and for the same reason that Guy did. She stood very straight and tall, in a white, shimmering dress. She wore a string of pearls that Cousin John had given her; she had chosen that as a present.
‘I adore pearls!’ she said.
Cousin Delia too had given her a necklace of old paste, little old pieces of paste set into flowers; it had belonged to Mary Geraldine, and Cousin Delia used to wear it, now she gave it to Diana, and she did not care for it.
She called me into her room—that was the evening before. . . .
‘Oh, my dear!’ she said, ‘just look what she has given me! It’s quite too marvellous, and awfully quaint, of course, but I simply couldn’t wear it, could I? Will the old duck mind, do you think, if I don’t? I wouldn’t hurt her for worlds!’
She clasped it round her neck, and made a face in the glass.
‘I should look too awfully odd, shouldn’t I, now, like that? Belonged to some old grandmother, she says. . . . I’m no good at the antique stunt!’ She flashed round at me, with her laughing, dancing eyes. ‘Not my line, you know, is it? Don’t you agree?’
And I didn’t know what to say, for what she said was true; it didn’t look right on her; it made her look loud and crude; she made it look weak and poor. But I loved that necklace so, on Cousin Delia. She had worn it when we were children, and Hugo had loved it too.
I said: