But whenever they occurred, Mrs. Colwood
found her own mind invincibly recalled to that name on the box of
papers, which still haunted her, still brought with it a vague sense of
something painful and harrowing--a breath of desolation, in strange
harmony, it often seemed, with certain looks and moods of Diana. But
Mrs. Colwood searched her memory in vain. And, indeed, after a little
while, some imperious instinct even forbade her the search--so rapid and
strong was the growth of sympathy with the young life which had called
her to its aid.
* * * * *
The day of the Marsham visit arrived--a January afternoon clear and
frosty. In the morning before they were to start, Diana seemed to be
often closeted with her maid, and once in passing Miss Mallory's open
door, her companion could not help seeing a consultation going on, and a
snowy white dress, with black ribbons, lying on the bed. Heretofore
Diana had only appeared in black, the strict black which French
dressmakers understand, for it was little more than a year since her
father's death. The thought of seeing her in white stirred Mrs.
Colwood's expectations.
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