ers moved to Perugia, and the hours they spent together in the
high and beautiful town were for all of them hours of well-being. Diana
was the centre of the group. In the eyes of the three men her story
invested her with a peculiar and touching interest. Their knowledge of
it, and her silent acceptance of their knowledge, made a bond between
her and them which showed itself in a hundred ways. Neither Ferrier, nor
Chide, nor young Forbes could ever do too much for her, or think for her
too loyally. And, on the other hand, it was her inevitable perception of
their unspoken thoughts which gave her courage toward them--a kind of
freedom which it is very difficult for women to feel or exercise in the
ordinary circumstances of life. She gave them each--gratefully--a bit of
her heart, in different ways.

Bobbie had adopted her as elder sister, having none of his own; and by
now she knew all about his engagement, his distaste for the Foreign
Office, his lack of prospects there, and his determination to change it
for some less expensive and more remunerative calling. But Lady Niton
was the dragon in the path. She had all sorts of ambitious projects for
him, none of which, according to Forbes, ever came off, there being
always some better fellow to be had. Diplomacy, in her eyes, was the
natural sphere of a young man of parts and family, and as for the money,
if he would only show the smallest signs of getting on, she would find
it. But in the service of his country Bobbie showed no signs whatever of
"getting on." He hinted uncomfortably, in his conversations with Diana,
at the long list of his obligations to Lady Niton--money lent, influence
exerted, services of many kinds--spread over four or five years, ever
since, after a chance meeting in a country-house, she had appointed
herself his earthly, providence, and he--an orphan of good family, with
a small income and extravagant tastes--had weakly accepted her bounties.

"Now, of course, she insists on my marrying somebody with money. As if
any chaperon would look at me! Two years ago I did make up to a nice
girl--a real nice girl--and only a thousand a year!--nothing so
tremendous, after all. But her mother twice carried her off, in the
middle of a rattling ball, because she had engaged herself to me--just
like sending a naughty child to bed! And the next time the mother made
me take _her_ down to supper, and expounded to me her view of a
chaperon's duties: 'My business, Mr. For