being an exception. I find the change in him significant of
much. . . . At the same time you have mixed enough in the world, dear,
to know that young men will be young men, and this sort of thing
happens, unfortunately."

"If, mamma, you suppose I bear Cousin Oliver any grudge because of this
child--"

"I am heartily glad to hear you say it. There should be, with us women,
a Christian nicety in dealing with these--er--situations; in retrospect,
at all events. A certain--disgust, shall we say?--is natural, proper,
even due to our sex: I should think the worse--very far the worse--of my
Diana did she not feel it. But above all things, charity! . . . And let
me tell you, dear, what I could not have told at the time, but I think
you are now old enough to know that such an experience is often the best
cure for a man, who thereafter, should he be fortunate in finding the
right woman, anchors his affections and proves the most assiduous of
husbands. This may sound paradoxical to you--"

"Dear mamma"--Diana hid a smile and a little yawn together--"believe me
it does not."

"Such a man, then," pursued Lady Caroline, faintly surprised, "is likely
to be the more appreciative of any kindness shown to--er--what I may
call the living consequence of his error."

"Why not say 'Dicky' at once, mamma, and have done with it."

"To Dicky, then, if you will; but I was attempting to lay down the
general rule which Dicky illustrates. A little gentle notice taken of
the child not only appeals to the man as womanly in itself, but
delicately conveys to him that the past is, to some extent, condoned.
He has sown his wild oats: he is, so to speak, _range_; but he is none
the less grateful for some assurance--"

Lady Caroline's discourse had whiled the way back to Sabines, to the
drawing-room; and here Diana wheeled round on her with the question,
sudden and straight,--

"Do you suppose that Cousin Oliver is _range_, as you call it?"

"My child, we have every reason to believe so."

"Then what do you make of this?" The girl took up a small volume that
lay on the top of the harpsichord, and thrust it into her mother's
hands.

"Eh? What?" Lady Caroline turned the book back uppermost and spelled
out the title through her eyeglass. "'Ovid'--he's Latin, is he not?
Dear, I had no notion that you kept up your studies in that--er--
tongue."

"I do not. I have forgot what little I learned of it, and that was next
to nothing. But