They crossed the Channel at night, and breakfasted together at Dover. Once in the train bound for London, Diana’s companions sought tactfully to find out who she was. Something quite indefinable and unusual about her gave them both a touch of “nerves.” She seemed removed and aloof from life’s ordinary things, though her manner was perfectly simple and natural. She gave her name quite frankly and added that she was quite alone in the world. “I have one friend,--Miss Sophy Lansing,” she said--“You may have heard of her. She is a leading Suffragette and a very clever writer. I am going to her now.” The ladies glanced at each other and smiled. “Yes,--we have heard of her,” said one. “But I hope she will not make _you_ a Suffragette! Life has much better fortune in store for you than that!” “You think so?”--and Diana shrugged her graceful shoulders indifferently--“Anyway, I am not interested in political matters at all. They are always small and quarrelsome,--like the buzzing of midges on a warm day!” One of her companions now took out her card-case. “Do come and see me in town!” she said kindly--“I should be very glad if you would. I live a very quiet hum-drum life and seldom see any young people.” Diana smiled as she accepted the card. “Thank you so much!” she murmured,--seeing at a glance the name and address “Lady Elswood, Chester Square,” and thinking how easy it was for youth and beauty to find friends--“I will certainly come.” “And don’t forget _me_!” said the other lady--“I live just round the corner,--only a few steps from Lady Elswood’s house, so you can come and see me also.” Diana expressed her acknowledgment by a look, reading on the second card now proffered: “Mrs. Gervase,” and the address indicated. “I will!” she said, and yet in her own mind she felt that these two good-natured women were the merest shadows to her consciousness, and that she had not the remotest idea of going to visit them at any time. London reached, they parted,--and Diana, taking a taxi-cab and claiming her modest luggage from the Custom-house officials, was driven straight to Sophy Lansing’s flat in Mayfair, which she had left under such different circumstances close on a year ago. Miss Lansing was in, said the servant who opened the door,--and Diana had hardly waited in the drawing-room five minutes, when there was a rush of garments and quick feet and Sophy herself appeared. But at the door she stopped--transfixed. “There’s some mistake,” she said at once--“You must have come to the wrong flat. I expected a friend,--Miss May. You are not Miss May.” Diana held out both hands. “Sophy, don’t you know me?” she said, smiling--“_Won’t_ you know me? Surely you recognise my voice? I told you in my letter from Paris that I was changed--I thought you would understand----”