Diana's true life
was there; and she did not even admit the loyal and gentle woman who had
taken a sister's place beside her to a knowledge of its ebb and flow.
She bore herself cheerfully and simply; went to picture-galleries and
churches; sketched and read--making no parade either of sorrow or of
endurance. But the impression on Mrs. Colwood all the time was of a
desperately struggling soul voyaging strange seas of grief alone. She
sometimes--though rarely--talked with Muriel of her mother's case; she
would sometimes bring her friend a letter of her father's, or a fragment
of journal from that full and tragic store which the solicitors had now
placed in her hands; generally escaping afterward from all comment; only
able to bear a look, a pressure of the hand. But, as a rule, she kept
her pain out of sight. In the long dumb debate with herself she had
grown thin and pale. There was nothing, however, to be done, nothing to
be said. The devoted friend could only watch and wait. Meanwhile, of
Oliver Marsham not a word was ever spoken between them.
* * * * *
The travellers climbed the hill as the sun sank behind the mountains,
made for the Subasio Hotel, found letters, and ordered rooms.
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