Here she paused. A standard rose tree weighted with splendid blossom showed among its flowers one that had been cramped and spoiled by the over-profusion and close pressure of its companions,--it was decaying amid the eager crowd of bursting buds that looked almost humanly anxious to be relieved of its presence. With soft, deft fingers Diana broke it away from the stem and let it drop to earth. “That is me!” she said. “And that’s what ought to become of me! Nothing withered or ugly ought to live in such a lovely world. I am a blot on beauty.” She looked out to sea again. The after-glow had almost faded; only one broad line of dull gold showed the parting trail of the sun. “No--there’s no hope!” she murmured, with an expressive gesture of her hands. “I must plod on day after day in the same old rut of things, doing my duty, which is perhaps all I ought to ask to do,--trying to make my mother comfortable and to keep my father in decent humour,--and then--then--when they go, I shall be alone in the world. No one will care what becomes of me,--even as it is now no one cares whether I live or die!” This is the discordant note in many a life’s music,--“no one cares.” When “no one cares” for us, we do not care about ourselves or about anybody else. And in “not caring” we stumble blindly and unconsciously on our only chance of safety and happiness. A heartless truth!--but a truth all the same. For when we have become utterly indifferent to Destiny, Destiny like a spoiled child does all she can to attract our notice, and manifests a sudden interest in us of which we had never dreamed. And the less we care, the more she clings! CHAPTER II Diana was “old enough,” as her recalcitrant lover had informed her, to value the blessing of a good night’s rest. She had a clear conscience,--she was, indeed, that _rara avis_, in these days, a perfectly innocent-minded woman, and she slept as calmly and peacefully as a child. When she woke to the light of a radiant morning, with the sunshine making diamonds of the sea, she felt almost young again as she tripped to and fro, putting the final touches of taste to the pretty drawing-room, and giving to every nook and corner that indefinable air of pleasant occupation which can only be bestowed by the hand of a dainty, beauty-loving woman. At the appointed hour, the automobile was sent to the station to meet Mr. and Mrs. James Polydore May, and punctual to time the worthy couple arrived, both husband and wife slightly out of humour with the heat of the fine summer’s day and the fatigue of the journey from London. “Well, Diana!” sighed her mother, turning a fat, buff-coloured cheek to be kissed, “is the house really decent and comfortable?” “It’s lovely!” declared Diana, cheerfully--“I’m sure you’ll be happy here, Mother! The garden is perfectly delightful!”