But Mrs. Hunstanton knew nothing more. Her husband had been mysterious and lofty all the morning, breathing hints and inferences, “I could, an if I would;” but he had been somewhat afraid of what his wife would say had he made her aware that he was ambassador for Pandolfini to Sophy. To Sophy! Mr. Hunstanton knew that his wife was capable of snatching his credentials, so to speak, out of his hand, if he had betrayed their destination. But he had not been able to refrain from hints, which she had received with eager yet impatient ears. “Don’t you meddle with Pandolfini’s love affairs,” she had said with irritation; but it was not to be expected that this vague caution could produce any effect. Diana remained in her balcony after her friend had gone, but no longer in the same mood. She was agitated, not painfully, yet not happily. The past was long past, and she did not brood over it; but yet there was something as strange as sad in this off repetition of the same theme. Why should it be to the wrong people that love was so often given, vain love, not sweet to any one, either to those who felt or those who called it forth? By what strange fate was it that some man or woman should be always making his or her heart a gift to some one who cared nothing for it? Diana was in most ways happy--at least, happy enough--happier far than the greater part of humanity, and than many a woman who had got the desire of her heart. She was neither afraid to look back into the past, nor dissatisfied with the present. But yet, there had been hard moments in her existence; and when she thought of Pandolfini, the tears came into her eyes which she was no longer tempted to shed for herself. Poor Pandolfini! but he would get over it, as one must. There was nothing unworthy in it, nothing to be ashamed of. A man does not break his heart for such a mistake, though it might be, she added to herself sadly, the turn of the tide for him, and change the colour of his days, as it had changed her own more or less. She was too wise to throw herself back into the personal phase of the question, or endeavour to revive within herself the feelings of the time when happiness seemed impossible for her, and all the glory of life over. Life was not over; she felt it and its greater purposes, and all that was best in it, rising strong and warm in her heart. And so would Pandolfini after a while. He was a man, and had compensations upon which women could not fall back; but yet she was sorry with a tender fellow-feeling, which brought tears to her eyes.