This was all that was said upon the subject of Pandolfini. Mr. Hunstanton, rubbing his hands with a chuckle of triumph over his own victory and his wife’s discomfiture, remained master of the situation. And the ordinary life was resumed, as if this little episode had never been. Reginald, the delicate boy to whom Mrs. Norton had been so kind, asked often if she was not coming back again. There was no one like her at bezique, he said. His mother was very kind, and would play with him when she was put to it, but Reginald could see that it bored mamma. Whereas Mrs. Norton was never bored: she liked it--she was always jolly--was she ever coming back? Diana could give no answer to that question. And in the course of the following year she had more than one temptation to transfer the Red House to other tenants. But she was as faithful as Reginald to her foolish little neighbours. And the house remained empty, with Mary Jane in possession, who was very fond of talking of Madam the Countess, which she understood was her little mistress’s correct style and title; and thus a whole year went away, and another midsummer made the woods joyful. Diana had little leisure left her to think of the two small people whom she had kept warm like birds under her wing, but nevertheless she went sometimes and looked at the vacant nest, and still kept it vacant, and missed them a little, which was stranger still. The curate, who also had resumed all his former habits, and spent his life, when he was not in the parish, following Diana with dull faithful eyes that never left her, met her one day near the deserted house. He had been visiting the gamekeeper, who was disabled by some accident, and was going home by that short cut through the park. How his heart beat when he came upon her all alone! It was very seldom he saw her alone. It reminded him of that day when he made his appeal to her about Pandolfini and she spoke to him of “you and I.” Would she ever say such words again? “I have been carrying news to Mary Jane,” said Diana, “of the birth of a little Pandolfini. She wants to know if the baby is a little lord like Lady Loamshire’s baby; but, alas! it is only a little girl.” “Has it come to that?” said the curate, startled--though he ought to have known better with all his parish experiences. “Oh yes,” said Diana, with a smile, “it has come to that. Sophy will be a charming little mother, and the baby will make her very happy.” “You always had a great opinion of--Madam Pandolfini.” “Yes,” said Diana, and she laughed, looking up at him. “I thought she would have made the very wife you want, Mr. Snodgrass; but, unfortunately, I thought of it too late.”