itchen
apron on and hands in flour, or in the dishabille of careless undress;
but as her husband saw her then, she was lovely in an exquisite degree.
She was wrapped in a quilted dressing-gown of soft grey stuff, with a
warm shawl about her shoulders; her beautiful abundant hair, which she
had been too weak of hand, and of heart too, to dress elaborately, lay
piled about her head in loose, bright, wavy masses, much more
picturesque than Diana would have known how to make them by design. I
think there is apt, too, to be about such women a natural grace of
motion or of repose; it was her case. To think of herself or the
appearance she might at any time be making, was foreign to Diana; the
noble grace of unconsciousness, united to her perfectness of build,
made her always faultless in action or attitude. If she moved or if she
sat, it might have been a duchess, for the beautiful unconscious ease
with which she did it. Nature's high breeding; there is such a thing,
and there is such an effect of it when the constitution of mind and
body are alike noble.

Basil poured out her cup of tea, and divided her quail, and then sat
down. It was hard for her to bear.

"You are too good to me," said Diana humbly.

"I should like to see you prove that."

"I am not sure but you are too good to everybody."

"Why? how can one be too good?"

"You won't get paid for it."

"I think I shall," said Basil, in a quiet confident way he had, which
was provoking if you were arguing with him. But Diana was not arguing
with him.

"Basil, _I_ can never pay you," she said, with a voice that faltered a
little.

"You are sure of that in your own mind?"

"Very sure!"

"I am a man of a hopeful turn of nature. Shall I divide that joint for
you?"

"My hands cannot manage a quail!" said Diana, yielding her knife and
fork to him. "What can make me so weak?"

"You have had fever."

"But I have no fever now, and I do not seem to get my strength back."

"After the unnatural tension, Nature takes her revenge."

"It is very hard on you!"

"What?"

Diana did not answer. She had spoken that last word with almost a break
in her voice; she gave her attention now diligently to picking the
quail bones. But when her supper was done, and the tray delivered over
to Miss Collins, Basil did not, as sometimes he did, go away and leave
her, but sat down again and trimmed the fire. Diana lay back in her
chair, looking at him.

"Basil," she said at last