Oliver--in the spring. I can't bear sitting there at Beechcote doing
nothing--amusing myself--when you--and Mr. Oliver--"
She stopped, forcing back the tears that would drive their way up,
studying in dismay the lined and dwindled face before her. Lady Lucy
colored deeply. During the months which had elapsed since the broken
engagement, she, even in her remote and hostile distance, had become
fully aware of the singular prestige, the homage of a whole district's
admiration and tenderness, which had gathered round Diana. She had
resented the prestige and the homage, as telling against Oliver,
unfairly. Yet as she looked at her visitor she felt the breath of their
ascendency. Tender courage and self-control--the woman, where the girl
had been--a nature steadied and ennobled--these facts and victories
spoke from Diana's face, her touch; they gave even something of
maternity to her maiden youth.
"You come to a sad house," said Lady Lucy, holding her away a little.
"I know." The voice was quivering and sweet. "But he will recover--of
course he'll recover!"
Lady Lucy shook her head.
"He seems to have no will to recover."
Then her limbs failed her.
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