ormed about the politics of her youth than
Barton himself; Sir James, too, was hazy about Louis Philippe, and could
never remember, in the order of Prime Ministers, whether Canning or Lord
Liverpool came first. With this, he was a simple and devout Catholic;
loved on his holiday to serve the mass of some poor priest in a mountain
valley; and had more than once been known to carry off some lax
Catholic junior on his circuit to the performance of his Easter duties,
willy-nilly--by a mixture of magnetism and authority. For all games of
chance he had a perfect passion; would play whist all night, and conduct
a case magnificently all day. And although he was no sportsman in the
ordinary sense, having had no opportunities in a very penurious youth,
he had an Irishman's love of horseflesh, and knew the Derby winners from
the beginning with as much accuracy as Macaulay knew the Senior
Wranglers.

Yet the two men loved, respected, and understood each other. Diana
wondered secretly, indeed, whether Sir James could have explained to her
the bond between Ferrier and Lady Lucy. That, to her inexperience, was a
complete mystery! Almost every day Ferrier wrote to Tallyn, and twice a
week at least, as the letters were delivered at _table d'hote,_ Diana
could not help seeing the long pointed writing on the thin black-edged
paper which had once been for her the signal of doom. She hardly
suspected, indeed, how often she herself made the subject of the man's
letters. Ferrier wrote of her persistently to Lady Lucy, being
determined that so much punishment at least should be meted out to that
lady. The mistress of Tallyn, on her side, never mentioned the name of
Miss Mallory. All the pages in his letters which concerned her might
never have been written, and he was well aware that not a word of them
would ever reach Oliver. Diana's pale and saddened beauty; the dignity
which grief, tragic grief, free from all sordid or ignoble elements, can
infuse into a personality; the affection she inspired, the universal
sympathy that was felt for her: he dwelt on these things, till Lady
Lucy, exasperated, could hardly bring herself to open the envelopes
which contained his lucubrations. Could any subject, in correspondence
with herself, be more unfitting or more futile?--and what difference
could it all possibly make to the girl's shocking antecedents?

* * * * *

One radiant afternoon, after a long day of sight-seeing,