May played billiards, if he could find anyone to play with him,--if not, he practised “tricky” things alone with the cue. Neither of them ever thought that this sort of life was not conducive to cheerfulness so far as their daughter Diana was concerned,--indeed they never considered her at all. When she was young--ah yes, of course!--it was necessary to find such entertainment and society for her as might “show her off,”--but now, when she was no longer marriageable in the conventionally accepted sense of marriage, she was left to bear the brunt of fate as best she might, and learn to be contented with the plain feminine duty of keeping house for her parents. It must be stated that she did this “keeping house” business to perfection,--she controlled expenses without a taint of meanness, managed the servants, and made the whole commonplace affair of ordinary living run smoothly. But whatever she did, she never had a word of praise from either her father or mother,--they took her careful service as their right, and never seemed to realise that most of their comforts and conveniences were the result of her forethought and good sense. Certainly they did not trouble themselves as to whether she was happy or the reverse. She thought of this,--just a little, but not morosely--on the last evening she was to spend alone at “Rose Lea” as the “ideal” summer residence was called,--probably on account of its facing west, and gathering on its walls and windows all the brilliant flush of the sunset. She was somewhat weary,--she had been occupied for hours in arranging her mother’s bedroom and seeing that all the numerous luxuries needed by that placid mass of superfluous flesh were in their place and order, and now that she had finished everything she had to do, she was glad to have the remainder of her time to herself in the garden, thinking, and--as usual--wondering. Her wonder was just simply this:--How long would she have to go on in the same clockwork mechanism of life as that which now seemed to be her destiny? She had made certain variations in the slow music of her days by study,--yes, that was true!--but then no one made use of her studies,--no one knew the extent of her attainments, and even in her music she had no encouragement,--no one ever asked her to play. All her efforts seemed so much wasted output of energy. She had certain private joys of her own,--a great love of Nature, which like an open door in Heaven allowed her to enter familiarly into some of the marvels and benedictions of creative intelligence; she loved books, and could read them in French and Italian, as well as in her native English; and she had taken to the study of Russian with some success. Greek and Latin she had learned sufficiently well to understand the great authors of the elder world in their own script,--but all these intellectual diversions were organised and followed on her own initiative, and as she sometimes said to herself a trifle bitterly: