He gave her a casual look,--then sniffed and smiled sardonically. “Dear me! How fine we are! I thought it was some young girl of the neighbourhood leaving cards on your mother! Why are you wearing white? Going to a wedding?” Diana coloured to the roots of her pretty hair. “It’s one of my washing frocks,” she submitted. “Oh, is it? Well, I like to see you in dark colours--they are more suited to--to your age. Only very young people should wear white.” He yawned capaciously. “Only very young people,” he repeated, closing his eyes. “Try and remember that.” “Mrs. Ross-Percival wears white,” said Diana, quietly. “You are always holding her up to admiration. And she’s sixty, if she’s a day.” Mr. Polydore May opened his eyes and bounced up in his chair. “Mrs. Ross-Percival is a very beautiful woman!” he snapped out. “One of _the_ beautiful women of society. And she’s married.” “Oh, yes, she’s a grandmother,” murmured Diana, smiling. “But you don’t tell _her_ not to wear white.” “Good God, of course not! It’s no business of mine! What are you talking about? She’s not my daughter!” Diana laughed her pretty soft laugh. “No, indeed! Poor Pa! That _would_ be terrible!--she’d make you seem so old if she were! But perhaps you wouldn’t mind as she’s so beautiful!” Mr. May stared at her wrathfully with the feeling that he was being made fun of. “She _is_ beautiful!” he said, firmly. “Only a jealous woman would dare to question it!” Diana laughed again. “Very well, she _is_ beautiful! Wig and all!” she said, and moved away, opening her parasol as she passed from the shadow of the cedar boughs into the full sun. “She’s getting beyond herself!” thought her father, watching her as she went, and noting what he was pleased to consider “affectation” in her naturally graceful way of walking. “And if she once begins that sort of game, she’ll be unbearable! Nothing can be worse than an old maid who gets beyond herself or above herself! She’ll be fancying some man is in love with her next!”