is winning ideas from the
abounding bubbling well. A recurrent smile beamed on his face when
hearing and observing her. Certain dishes provided at the table were
Diana's favourites, and he relished them, asking for a second help,
and remarking that her taste was good in that as in all things. They
lunched, eating like boys. They walked over the grounds of Copsley,
and into the lanes and across the meadows of the cowslip, rattling,
chatting, enlivening the frosty air, happy as 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 arriva