"You were happy to-night?--you enjoyed the dance?"
The question, so put, with such a look, from another mouth, would have
been an impertinence. Diana shrank, but could not resent it. Yet,
against her will, she flushed deeply.
"Yes. It was delightful. I did not expect to enjoy it so much, but--"
"But you did! That's well. That's good!"
Marion Vincent rose feebly. And as she stood, leaning on the chair, she
touched the folds of Diana's white dress.
"When shall I see you again?--and that dress?"
"I shall be in London in May," said Diana, eagerly--May I come then? You
must tell me where."
"Ah, you won't come to Bethnal Green in that dress. What a pity!"
Diana helped her to her room, where they shook hands and parted. Then
Diana came back to her own quarters. She had put out the electric light
for Miss Vincent's sake. The room was lit only by the fire. In the
full-length mirror of the toilet-table Diana saw her own white
reflection, and the ivy leaves in her hair. The absence of her mourning
was first a pain; then the joy of the evening surged up again. Oh, was
it wrong, was it wrong to be happy--in this world "where men sit and
hear each other groan"? She clasped her hands to her soft breast, as
though defending the warmth, the hope that were springing there, against
any dark protesting force that might threaten to take them from her.
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