Then she drove on, and Mrs. Roughsedge was left
staring discontentedly at her husband.
"I think she _was_ glad, Henry?"
"Think it, my dear, if it does you any good," said the doctor,
cheerfully.
* * * * *
When Diana reached home night had fallen--a moon-lit night, through
which all the shapes and even the colors of day were still to be seen or
divined in a softened and pearly mystery. Muriel Colwood was not at
home. She had gone to town, on one of her rare absences, to meet some
relations. Diana missed her, and yet was conscious that even the watch
of those kind eyes would--to-night--have added to the passionate torment
of thought.
As she sat alone in the drawing-room after her short and solitary meal
her nature bent and trembled under the blowing of those winds of fate,
which, like gusts among autumn trees, have tested or strained or
despoiled the frail single life since time began; winds of love and
pity, of desire and memory, of anguish and of longing.
Only her dog kept her company. Sometimes she rose out of restlessness,
and moved about the room, and the dog's eyes would follow her, dumbly
dependent.
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