The sight of it unloosed some swell of passion in Diana; she found herself smiling amid her tears, and saying incoherent things that only the wood caught.

To-day was the meeting of Parliament.  She pictured the scene.  Marsham was there, full of projects and ambitions.  Innocently, exultantly, she reminded herself how much she knew of them.  If he could not have her sympathy, he must have her antagonism.  But no chilling exclusions and reserves!  Rather, a generous confidence on his side; and a gradual, a child-like melting and kindling on hers.  In politics she would never agree with him—­never!—­she would fight him with all her breath and strength.  But not with the methods of Mrs. Fotheringham.  No!—­what have politics to do with—­with—­

She dropped her face in her hands, laughing to herself, the delicious tremors of first love running through her.  Would she hear from him?  She understood she was to be written to, though she had never asked it.  But ought she to allow it?  Was it convenable?  She knew that girls now did what they liked—­threw all the old rules overboard.  But—­proudly—­she stood by the old rules; she would do nothing “fast” or forward.  Yet she was an orphan—­standing alone; surely for her there might be more freedom than for others?

She hurried home.  With the rush of new happiness had come back the old pity, the old yearning.  It wasn’t, wasn’t Fanny’s fault!  She—­Diana—­had always understood that Mr. Merton was a vulgar, grasping man of no breeding who had somehow entrapped “your aunt Bertha—­who was very foolish and very young”—­into a most undesirable marriage.  As for Mrs. Merton—­Aunt Bertha—­Fanny had with her many photographs, among them several of her mother.  A weak, heavy face, rather pretty still.  Diana had sought her own mother in it, with a passionate yet shrinking curiosity, only to provoke a rather curt reply from Fanny, in answer to a question she had, with difficulty, brought herself to put: 

“Not a bit!  There wasn’t a scrap of likeness between mother and Aunt Sparling.”

* * * * *

The evening passed off better than the morning had done.  Eyes more acute in her own interests than Diana’s might have perceived a change in Fanny Merton, after her long conversation with Mrs. Colwood.  A certain excitement, a certain triumph, perhaps an occasional relenting and compunction:  all these might have been observed or guessed.  She made herself quite amiable:  showed more photographs, talked still more frankly of her card-winnings on the steamer, and of the flirtation which had beguiled the voyage; bespoke the immediate services of Diana’s maid for a dress that must be done up; and expressed a desire for another and a bigger wardrobe in her room.  Gradually a tone of possession, almost of command, crept in.  Diana, astonished and amused, made no resistance.  These, she supposed, were West-Indian manners.  The Colonies are like healthy children that submit in their youth, and then grow up and order the household about.  What matter!