Diana reached home when the country was in the full glory of summer. She, too, was like the summer, her friends said--more beautiful than ever she had been--with just a touch of sunburn from her journey, which ripened her paleness and made her eyes more brilliant. The whole county hurried to the Chase to meet and greet her, and tell her how well she was looking, and that foreign travel evidently agreed with her. “But, all the same, you must not go again, for we cannot spare you,” they cried. Nothing could go on without Diana. “And we were so sadly afraid you meant to stay and spend the summer in Switzerland,” said young Lady Loamshire (she whose title, Diana remembered with a smile, was the same as Sophy’s). Nobody could have a more flattering reception. There was a general feeling of escape that so precious a possession as their virgin-princess had been got back in safety. The county did not like her to move: even when she went to London, it was never without fears that somebody might snap her up, and marry her before any one could interfere: and how much more “abroad,” where there were always needy foreigners on the strain to catch rich English ladies! She and the county had escaped a great danger--they could not sufficiently pet and caress her when she got back. In the delight of her safety they were all quite satisfied to hear that Sophy Norton had made such a good marriage. “Only I hope the poor man was not taken in. They think all the English are so rich,” said one of those who had been afraid that Diana would be “snapt up.” This was an old lady who had as much fear for the conventional fortune-hunter as so many other old ladies have of the Pope. But Sophy Norton was nobody: she was a cheap ransom to pay for Diana, and only interested a very few people, who were amused or delighted or irritated, as the case might be, to hear that so insignificant a person was now the Countess Pandolfini. Diana did her full justice, and gave her the benefit of her coronet, by which all the servants, and especially the maid who had charge of the Red House, were deeply impressed. Diana’s own household did not like it. They thought it extremely forward of a little thing who owed so much to Miss Trelawny to marry a titled gentleman, though it was some little solace to remember that foreign counts were not much to swear by. But the maid at the Red House felt her bosom swell with pride as loftily as Sophy’s own. “I don’t believe as she’ll be a bit proud, but just as friendly with Miss Trelawny as ever,” Mary Jane said, “though a married lady, and a titled lady stands more high like in the world.” The Trelawny household did not know what to answer to this taunt. They made hot protestations on behalf of their mistress that she might have married half the gentlemen in the county, and had her pick and choice of titles; but of course they could not give proof of this assertion, and Mary Jane’s statement as to the superiority of a married and titled lady was