“Your mother spoke of the house, not the garden,” interposed Mr. May, judicially. “You really must be accurate, Diana! Yes--er--yes!--that will do!”--this, as Diana somewhat shrinkingly embraced him. “Your mother is always suspicious--and rightly so--of damp in rented country houses, but I think we made ourselves certain that there was nothing of that kind before we decided to take it. And no poultry clucking?--no noises of a farmyard close by? No? That’s a comfort! Yes--er--it seems fairly suitable. Is luncheon ready?” Diana replied that it was, and the family of three were soon seated at table in the dining-room, discussing lobster mayonnaise. As Mrs. May bent her capacious bosom over her plate, her round eyes goggling with sheer greed, and Mr. May ate rapidly as was his wont, casting sharp glances about him to see if he could find fault with anything, Diana’s heart sank more and more. It was just the same sort of luncheon as at home in Richmond, tainted by the same sordid atmosphere of commonplace. Her parents showed no spark of pleasurable animation or interest in the change of scene or the loveliness of the garden and sea as glimpsed through the open French windows,--everything had narrowed into the savoury but compressed limit of lobster mayonnaise. “Too much mustard in this, as usual,” said Mr. May, scraping his plate noisily. “Not at all,” retorted his wife, with placid obstinacy. “If there _is_ anything Marsh knows _how_ to make with absolute perfection, it _is_ mayonnaise.” Marsh was the cook, and the cause of many a matrimonial wrangle. “Oh, of course, Marsh is faultless!” sneered Mr. May. “This house has been taken solely that Marsh shall have a change of air and extra perquisites!” Mrs. May’s eyes goggled a little more prominently, and protecting her voluminous bust with a dinner-napkin, she took a fresh supply of mayonnaise. Diana, who was a small eater and who rather grudged the time her parents spent over their meals, took no part in this sort of “sparring,” which always went on between the progenitors of her being. She was thankful when luncheon was over and she could escape to her own room. There she found the maid, Grace Laurie, with some letters which had just arrived. “These are for you, miss,” said Grace. “I brought them up out of the hall, as I thought you’d like to be quiet for a bit.” Diana smiled, gratefully. “Thank you, Grace. Mother is coming upstairs directly to lie down--will you see she has all she wants?” “Yes, miss.” Then, after a pause, “It’s you that should lie down and get a rest, Miss Diana,--you’ve been doing ever such a lot all these days. You should just take it easy now.” Diana smiled again. There was something of kindly compassion in the “take it easy” suggestion--but she nodded assentingly and the well-meaning maid left her.