Far up in the hills the Beautiful Lady went daily to the post-office for her mail.
It was a long walk, and the path skirted the edge of the forest. Leaving the path one entered upon a world of dim green light, a world of soft whispering sounds, a world of enchantment; and it was into this world that Diana's feet strayed as she came and went. It was here she spent most of her mornings; it was here she found the solitude she craved.
The guests at the mountain house called the Beautiful Lady exclusive; but it was an exclusiveness which matched her air of remoteness, and since such friendships as she encouraged were with those who were lonely and tired and sick, she made no enemies by her withdrawal from the conventional life of the place.
The lazy folk on the porch who were content to wait for the mail bag which came at noon by carrier always watched with curiosity the departure and return of the stately woman who was said to be wealthy and of great social eminence. She went alone and came back just in time for lunch, having loitered on the way to read her letters.
The letters, however, were not always satisfying. They brought such meager news of that which lay so near her heart! Sophie kept persistently away from topics which might be disturbing; Bettina's girlish epistles really told nothing—and Anthony wrote not at all.
Yet such scraps as she could glean formed the excitement of Diana's day, and always she had a vague and formless hope—a hope for which she reproached herself. Always she hoped for a letter from Anthony.
She knew that he ought not to write. She knew that if he did write she would not answer—but the longing of her heart would not be stilled.
As far as possible she forced her mind to thoughts of the future, and it was thus she had evolved the plan which she had written to Sophie. It was the only way in which her life could be linked with Anthony's; they would thus share in a work which might continue in interest to the end of their days.
There were times, however, when all of her optimism, all of her philosophy failed, and when her whole nature cried out for reality—not for dreams.
It was on one of these days of depression that she left behind her the hotel piazza with its chattering crowd, and drifted somewhat languidly across the lawn, past the tennis courts, and out into the mountain path.