Meanwhile, Diana, imprisoned in her luxurious suite of rooms, had nothing to complain of. She read many books, practised her music, worked at her tapestry, and last, not least, studied herself. She had begun to be worth studying. Looking in her mirror, she saw a loveliness delicate and well-nigh unearthly, bathing her in its growing lustre as in a mysteriously brilliant atmosphere. Her eyes shone with a melting lustre like the eyes of a child appealing to be told some strange sweet fairy legend,--her complexion was so fair as to be almost dazzling, the pure ivory white of her skin showing soft flushes of pale rose with the healthful pulsing of her blood--her lips were of a dewy crimson tint such as one might see on a red flower-bud newly opened,--and as she gazed at herself and reluctantly smiled at her own reflection, she had the curious impression that she was seeing the picture of somebody else in the glass,--somebody else who was young and enchantingly pretty, while she herself remained plain and elderly. And yet this was not the right view to take of her own personality, for apart altogether from her outward appearance she was conscious of a new vitality,--an abounding ecstasy of life,--a joy and strength which were well-nigh incomprehensible,--for though these sensations dominated every fibre of her being, they were not, as formerly, connected with any positive human interest. For one thing, she scarcely thought of Dimitrius at all, except that she had come to regard him as a sort of extraneous being--an upper servant told off to wait upon her after the fashion of Vasho,--and when she went out with him, she went merely because she needed the fresh air and loved the open skies, not because she cared for his company, for she hardly spoke to him. Her strange behaviour completely puzzled him, but his deepening anxiety for the ultimate success of his “experiment” deterred him from pressing her too far with questions. One evening during the first week in June, when the moon was showing a half crescent in the sky, a light wind ruffled the hundreds of roses on bush and stem that made the gardens fragrant, he went to her rooms to propose a sail on the lake. He heard her playing the piano,--the music she drew from the keys was wild and beautiful and new,--but as he entered, she stopped abruptly and rose at once, her eyes glancing him over carelessly as though he were more of an insect than a man. He paused, hesitating. “You want me?” she asked. “For your own pleasure,--at least, I hope so!” he replied, almost humbly. “It’s such a beautiful evening--would you come for a sail on the lake? The wind is just right for it and the boat is ready.” She made no reply, but at once threw a white serge cloak across her shoulders, pulling its silk-lined hood over her head, and accompanied him along a private passage which led from the upper floor of the house to the garden.