“Of course!--dull people would laugh,” agreed Dimitrius. “People in the aggregate laugh at most things, except lack of money. That makes them cry--if not outwardly, then inwardly. But I do not laugh,--for if you can forget heat and cold and rough weather in the dream of seeking to discover your own significance and meaning in a universe where truly nothing exists without its set place and purpose, you are a woman of originality as well as intelligence. But that much of you I have already discovered.” She glanced at him brightly. “You are very kind!” “Now do you mean that seriously or ironically?” he queried, with a slight smile. “I am not really ‘very kind’--I consider myself very cruel to have kept you chained for more than a month to rolls of vellum inscribed with crabbed old Latin characters, illegible enough to bewilder the strongest eyes. But you have done exceedingly well,--and we have all three had time to know each other and to like each other, so that a harmony between us is established. Yes--you have done more than exceedingly well----” “I am glad you are pleased,” said Diana, simply, resting one hand on her embroidery frame and looking at him with somewhat tired, anxious eyes. “I was rather hoping to see you this evening, though it is, as you say, after working hours, for I wanted very much to tell you that the manuscript I am now deciphering seems to call for your own particular attention. I should prefer your reading it with me before I go further.” “You are very conscientious,” he said, fixing his eyes keenly upon her--“Is she not, mother mine? She is afraid she will learn something important and necessary to my work before I have a chance to study it for myself. Loyal Miss Diana!” Madame Dimitrius glanced wistfully from her son to Diana, and from Diana back to her son again. “Yes, she is loyal, Féodor! You have found a treasure in her,” she said--“I am sure of it. It seems a providence that she came to us.” “Is it not Shakespeare who says, ‘There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow’?” he queried lightly. “How much more ‘special’ then is the coming of a Diana!” It was the first time he had used her Christian name without any ceremonious prefix in her presence, and she was conscious of a thrill of pleasure, for which she instantly reproached herself. “I have no business to care what or how he calls me,” she thought. “He’s my employer,--nothing more.” “Diana,” repeated Dimitrius, watching her narrowly from under his now half-shut eyelids. “Diana is a name fraught with beautiful associations--the divine huntress--the goddess of the moon! Diana, the fleet of foot--the lady of the silver bow! What poets’ dreams, what delicate illusions, what lovely legends are clustered round the name!” She looked at him, half amused, half indifferent.