She sank into a chair by the fire, and there
was Diana on a stool at her feet--timidly daring--dropping soft caresses
on the hand she held, drawing out the tragic history of the preceding
weeks, bringing, indeed, to this sad and failing mother what she had
perforce done without till now--that electric sympathy of women with
each other which is the natural relief and sustenance of the sex.
Lady Lucy forgot her letters--forgot, in her mind-weariness, all the
agitating facts about this girl that she had once so vividly remembered.
She had not the strength to battle and hold aloof. Who now could talk of
marrying or giving in marriage? They met under a shadow of death; the
situation between them reduced to bare elemental things.
"You'll stay and dine with me?" she said at last, feebly. "We'll send
you home. The carriages have nothing to do. And"--she straightened
herself--"you must see Oliver. He will know that you are here."
Diana said nothing. Lady Lucy rose and left the room. Diana leaned her
head against the chair in which the older lady had been sitting, and
covered her eyes. Her whole being was gathered into the moment
of waiting.
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