Pandolfini was a very strange lover. He had become suddenly immersed in business--so much occupied that his visits to his betrothed were always hurried and brief. This was made necessary, he told them, by all the changes that had to be made, and successions rearranged, in consequence of this unexpected step in his life: and they were fain to accept the explanation. The strangest of all was, that notwithstanding that deep sense of obligation to Diana which it was Mrs. Norton’s delight to set forth, he never appeared in Diana’s rooms again. Once only they met by chance in Mrs. Norton’s little drawing-room, when all was nearly settled. He came in hurriedly, seeking Mrs. Norton, whom Diana also, by some unusual chance, had come to look for; and there they met alone, for both of the little ladies were out engaged in that occupation of shopping which furnishes the unoccupied female mind with so many delightful hours. Pandolfini was struck dumb by the sight of Diana, and she, as she hastened to explain how she came to be there, was so startled by his altered looks as almost to break down in her little speech. “They are out,” she said hurriedly; “I had just come to look for them.” And then she paused, faltering--“You are--ill--Mr. Pandolfini?” “Ill? No, I am not ill. I am as I always am.” “Not as you used to be,” said Diana, kindly; and then she added in haste, “but it is so long since I have seen you, that you may well have changed in the meantime. And I have never had the opportunity of congratulating--of wishing you--happiness.” He looked at her for a moment with all his heart in his haggard face; then, turning suddenly away with an imploring gesture, hid his face in his hands. What was she to do or say? There was no contesting now what she could read as in a book--the despair that had kept him out of her presence, that made him incapable either of meeting her eye or deceiving her now. He had no wish to deceive her,--if, indeed, there was one thing more than another for which his forlorn heart had longed, it was that she should know. “Forgive me,” he said, in a broken voice, “I can have no disguises from you.” Diana was too much discomposed to know what to say. Such a tacit confidence seemed wrong, almost a treachery to poor little innocent Sophy, who had no conception of this secret, and could not have understood it had she known. She said gently, “You must let me wish you well at least. I do that from the bottom of my heart.” He looked at her with piteous eyes, doubly dark with a moisture which the powerful mechanism of pain had forced into them, but which was too bitter and concentrated to fall and relieve the brain from which it was wrung. “Think of me sometimes,” he said. “You know how it is with me. You, who are kind to all, sometimes think of me a little. That will help me to bear. I will do--my duty.”