“Oh, Pa! Poor old Pa! Just the same Pa! Don’t trouble yourself and don’t look so frightened! I won’t ‘bite’ you! My car is waiting and I have to be back at the hotel in time for dinner.” And she stepped lightly along out of the drawing-room without one backward glance at the moaning Mrs. May, supported by Miss Preston, while James Polydore followed her, vaguely wondering whether her mention of a car in waiting might not be something like crazed Ophelia’s call for “Come, my coach!” Suddenly she said: “Is Grace Laurie still with you?” He stared, thoroughly taken aback. “Grace Laurie? My wife’s maid? She married and went to Australia six months ago. How could you know her?” “As your daughter Diana, I knew her, of course!” she replied. “Poor Grace! She was a kind girl! _She_ would have recognised my voice, I’m sure. Is it possible _you_ don’t?” “I don’t, indeed!” answered “Pa” cautiously, while using his best efforts to get her out of the house--“Come, come! I’m very sorry for you,--you are evidently one of those ‘lost identity’ cases of which we so often hear--and you are far too pretty to be in such a sad condition of mind! You see, you don’t know yourself, and you don’t know what you’re talking about! My daughter Diana was not like you at all,--she was a middle-aged woman--Ah!--over forty----” “So she was--so she _is_!” said Diana--“_I’m_ over forty! But, Pa, why give yourself away? It makes _you_ so old!” She threw him such a smile, and such a glance of arrowy brilliancy that his head whirled. “Poor child, poor child!” he mumbled, taking her daintily-gloved hand and patting it. “Far gone!--far gone, indeed! And so beautiful, too!--so very beautiful!” Here he kissed the hand he had grasped. “There, there! You are almost normal! Be quite good! Here we are at the door--now, are you sure you have a car? Shall I come with you?” Diana drew her hand away from her father’s hold, and her laugh, silvery sweet, rang out in a little peal of mirth. “No, Pa! Fond as you are of the ladies, you cannot make love to your own daughter! The Prayer Book forbids! Besides, a mad girl is not fit for your little gallantries! You poor dear! One year has aged you rather badly! Aren’t you a _leetle_ old for Miss Preston?” A quick flush overspread James Polydore’s already rubicund countenance, and he blinked his eyes in a special “manner” which he was accustomed to use when feigning great moral rectitude. More than ever convinced that his visitor was insane, he continued to talk on in blandly soothing accents: “Ah, I see your car? And no one with you? Dear, dear! I wish I could escort you to--to wherever you are going----” “No, you don’t--not just now!” said Diana, laughing. “You’re too scared! But perhaps another time----”