Diana, on the other hand, was still a new sensation, and
something of a queen wherever she went. Her welcoming eyes, her
impetuous smile drew a natural homage; and Fanny followed sulkily in her
wake, accepted--not without surprise--as Miss Mallory's kinswoman, but
distinguished by no special attentions.
In any case, she would have rebelled against the situation. Her vanity
was amazing, her temper violent. At home she had been treated as a
beauty, and had ruled the family with a firm view to her own interests.
What in Alicia Drake was disguised by a thousand subleties of class and
training was here seen in its crudest form. But there was more
besides--miserably plain now to this trembling spectator. The resentment
of Diana's place in life, as of something robbed, not earned--the
scarcely concealed claim either to share it or attack it--these things
were no longer riddles to Muriel Colwood. Rather they were the
storm-signs of a coming tempest, already darkening above an
innocent head.
What could she do? The little lady gave her days and nights to the
question, and saw no way out. Sometimes she hoped that Diana's
personality had made an impression on this sinister guest; she traced a
grudging consciousness in Fanny of her cousin's generosity and charm.
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