“Oh, Grace, Grace!” she said, at last. “You are too funny for words! I must learn that wise saying of yours by heart! What is it? ‘Never care more for a man with your ’ed than you can kick off with your ’eels’?--Splendid! And you mean it?” Grace nodded emphatically. “Of course I mean it! It don’t do to care too much for a man,--he’s always a sort o’ spoilt babe, and what he gets easy he don’t care for, and what he can’t have he’s always crying, crying after. You’ll find that true, Miss Diana!” The sparkle of laughter quenched itself in Diana’s eyes and left her looking weary. “Yes--I daresay you are right,” she said--“quite right, Grace!” And looking up, she spoke slowly and rather sadly. “Perhaps it’s true--some people say it is--that men like bad women better than good,--and that if a woman is thoroughly selfish, vain and reckless, treating men with complete indifference and contempt, they admire her much more than if she were loving and faithful.” “Of course!” assented Grace, positively. “Look at Mrs. Potter-Barney!--the one the halfpenny newspapers call the ‘beautiful Mrs. Barney’! I know a maid who was told by another maid that she got five hundred guineas for a kiss!--and Lady Wasterwick has had thousands of pounds for----” Diana held up a hand,--she smiled still, but a trifle austerely. “That will do, Grace!” Grace coughed discreetly and subsided. “Is mother still lying down?” then asked Diana. “Yes, miss. She’ll be on her bed till the dinner dressing bell rings. And Mr. May’s asleep over his newspaper in the garden.” Again Diana laughed her clear, pretty laugh. The somnolent habits of her parents were so enlivening, and made home-life so cheerful! “Well, all right, Grace,” she said. “If there’s nothing for me to do I shall go for a walk presently. So you’ll know what to say if I’m asked for.” Grace assented, and then departed. Diana finished her cup of tea in meditative mood,--then, resolving to throw her retrospective thoughts to the winds, prepared to go out. It was an exceptionally fine afternoon, warm and brilliant, and instead of her navy linen gown which had seen considerable wear and tear, she put on a plain white one which became her much better than the indigo blue, and, completing her costume with a very simple straw hat and white parasol, she went downstairs and out of the house into the garden. She had meant to avoid her father, whom she saw on the lawn, under the spreading boughs of a cedar tree, seated in one rustic arm-chair, with his short legs comfortably disposed on another, and the day’s newspaper modestly spread as a coverlet over his unbuttoned waistcoat,--but an inquisitive wasp happening to buzz too near his nose he made a dart at it with one hand, and opening his eyes, perceived her white figure moving across the grass. “Who’s that? What’s that?” he called out, sharply. “Don’t glide about like a ghost! Is it you, Diana?” “Yes,--it’s me,” she replied, and came up beside him.