His Grace of Andover saw enough to guess at the unsounded depths in her soul, and he became lover-like. Diana recoiled instinctively, throwing up a barrier of reserve between them. It was not what he said that alarmed her, but it was the way in which he said it, and the vague something in the purring, faintly sinister voice that she could not quite define, that made her heart beat unpleasantly fast, and the blood rush to her temples. She began first to dread the morning promenade, and then to avoid it. One day she had a headache; the next her foot was sore; another time she wanted to work at her fancy stitchery, until her aunt, who knew how she disliked her needle, and how singularly free from headaches and all petty ailments she was wont to be, openly taxed her with no longer wishing to walk abroad.
They were in the girl’s bedroom at the time, Diana seated before her dressing-table, brushing out her hair for the night. When her aunt put the abrupt question she hesitated, caught a long strand in her comb, and pretended to be absorbed in its disentanglement. The clouds of rippling hair half hid her face, but Miss Betty observed how her fingers trembled, and repeated her question. Then came the confession. Mr. Everard was unbearable; his attentions were odious; his continued presence revolting to Mistress Di. She was afraid of him, afraid of his dreadful green eyes and of his soft voice. She wished they had never come to Bath, and still more that they had not met him. He looked at her as if—as if—oh, in short, he was hateful!
Miss Betty was horrified.
“You cannot mean it! Dear, dear, dear! Here was I thinking what a pleasant gentleman he was, and all the time he was persecuting my poor Di, the wretch! I know the type, my love, and I feel inclined to give him a good piece of my mind!”
“Oh, no—no!” implored Diana. “Indeed, you must do no such thing, Auntie! He has said nought that I could possibly be offended at—’tis but his manner, and the—and the way he looked at me. Indeed, indeed, you must not!”
“Tut, child! Of course I shall say nought. But it makes me so monstrous angry to think of my poor lamb being tormented by such as he that I declare I could tear his eyes out! Yes, my dear, I could! Thank goodness we are leaving Bath next week!”
“Yes,” sighed Diana. “I cannot help being glad, though Madam Thompson is very amiable! ’Tis so very different when there is no man with one!”
“You are quite right, my love. We should have insisted on your father’s staying with us instead of allowing him to fly back to his fusty, musty old volumes. I shall not be so foolish another time, I can assure you. But we need not go to the Assembly Rooms again.”
“I need not go,” corrected Diana gently. “Of course you and Madam Thompson will continue to.”
“To tell the truth, my love,” confessed Miss Betty, “I shall not be sorry for an excuse to stay away. ’Tis doubtless most ill-natured of me, but I cannot but think that Hester has altered sadly since last I saw her. She is always talking of sermons and good works!”
Diana twisted her luxuriant hair into a long plait, and gave a gurgling little laugh.
“Oh, Auntie, is it not depressing? I wondered how you could tolerate it! She is so vastly solemn, poor dear thing!”
“Well,” said Miss Betty charitably, “she has seen trouble, has Hester Thompson, and I have my doubts about this George of hers. A worthless young man, I fear, from all accounts. But, unkind though it may be, I shall be glad to find myself at home again, and that’s the truth!” She rose and picked up her candle. “In fact, I find Bath not half so amusing as I was told ’twould be.”
Diana walked with her to the door.
“ ’Tis not amusing at all when one has no friends; but last year, when my cousins were with us and papa took a house for the season on the North Parade, ’twas most enjoyable. I wish you had been there, instead of with that disagreeable Aunt Jennifer!”
She kissed her relative most affectionately and lighted her across the landing to her room. Then she returned to her room and shut the door, giving a tired little yawn.
It was at about that moment that his Grace of Andover was ushered into the already crowded cardroom of my Lord Avon’s house in Catharine Place, and was greeted with ribald cries of “Oho, Belmanoir!”, and “Where’s the lady, Devil?”
He walked coolly forward into the full light of a great pendant chandelier, standing directly beneath it, the diamond order on his breast burning and winking like a living thing. The diamonds in his cravat and on his fingers glittered every time he moved, until he seemed to be carelessly
