children
biting to the juices of ripe apples off the tree. But Tony was the tree,
the dispenser of the rosy gifts. She had a moment of reflection, only a
moment, and Emma felt the pause as though a cloud had shadowed them and a
spirit had been shut away. Both spoke of their happiness at the kiss of
parting. That melancholy note at the top of the wave to human hearts
conscious of its enforced decline was repeated by them, and Diana's
eyelids blinked to dismiss a tear.

'You have no troubles?' Emma said.

'Only the pain of the good-bye to my beloved,' said Diana. 'I have never
been happier--never shall be! Now you know him you think with me? I knew
you would. You have seen him as he always is--except when he is armed for
battle. He is the kindest of souls. And soul I say. He is the one man
among men who gives me notions of a soul in men.'

The eulogy was exalted. Lady Dunstane made a little mouth for Oh, in
correction of the transcendental touch, though she remembered their
foregone conversations upon men--strange beings that they are!--and
understood Diana's meaning.

'Really! really! honour!' Diana emphasized her extravagant praise, to
print it fast. 'Hear him speak of Ireland.'

'Would he not speak of Ireland in a tone to catch the Irishwoman?'

'He is past thoughts of catching, dearest. At that age men are pools of
fish, or what you will: they are not anglers. Next year, if you invite
us, we will come again.'

'But you will come to stay in the Winter?'

'Certainly. But I am speaking of one of my holidays.'

They kissed fervently. The lady mounted; the grey and portly lord
followed her; Sir Lukin flourished his whip, and Emma was left to brood
over her friend's last words: 'One of my holidays.' Not a hint to the
detriment of her husband had passed. The stray beam balefully
illuminating her marriage slipped from her involuntarily. Sir Lukin was
troublesome with his ejaculations that evening, and kept speculating on
the time of the arrival of the four-in-hand in London; upon which he
thought a great deal depended. They had driven out of town early, and if
they drove back late they would not be seen, as all the cacklers were
sure then to be dressing for dinner, and he would not pass the Clubs. 'I
couldn't suggest it,' he said. 'But Dannisburgh's an old hand. But they
say he snaps his fingers at tattle, and laughs. Well, it doesn't matter
for him, perhaps, but a game of two . . . . Oh! it'll be all right. They
c