“Why _say_ it?” she expostulated. “You only give yourself and me away! We are her parents!” “I don’t say it in public,” he replied. “Catch me! But it’s true. Let me see!--why, Diana was born in----” His wife gave an angry gesture. “Never mind when she was born!” she said, with a tremble as of tears in her voice. “You needn’t recall it! Our only child!--and she has spoilt her life and mine too!” A faint whimper escaped her, and she put a filmy handkerchief to her eyes. Mr. May took no notice. For women’s tears he had a sovereign contempt. “The fact is,” he said, judicially, “we ought to have trained her to do something useful. Nursing, or doctoring, or dressmaking, or type-writing. She would have had her business to attend to, which would have kept her away from _Us_,--and I--we--could have gone about free as air. We need never have mentioned that we had a daughter.” Mrs. May looked scrutinizingly at her lace handkerchief. She remembered it had cost a couple of guineas, and now there was a hole in it. She must tell Diana to mend it. With this thought uppermost in her always chaotic mind, she said between two long-drawn sighs: “After all, James, poor Diana does her best. She is very useful in the house.” “Stuff and nonsense! She does nothing at all! She spoils the servants, if that is what you mean,--allows them to have their own way a great deal too much, in my opinion! It amuses her to play at housekeeping.” “She doesn’t play at it,” remonstrated Mrs. May, weakly endeavouring to espouse the cause of justice. “She is very earnest and painstaking about it, and does it very well. She keeps down expenses, and saves me a great deal of worry.” “Hm-m-m!” growled her husband. “It would do you good to be worried a bit! Take down your weight! Of course, what can’t be cured must be endured, but I’ve spoken the brutal truth,--Diana, at her age, and with her looks, and all her chances of marriage gone, is _in the way_. For instance, suppose I go to a new neighbour’s house, and I’m asked ‘Have you any family?’--I reply: ‘Yes, one daughter.’ Then some fool of a woman says: ‘Oh, do bring your girl with you next time!’ Well, she’s not a ‘girl.’ I don’t wish to say she’s not, but if I do take her with me ‘next time,’ everybody is surprised. You see, when they look at _me_, they expect my daughter to be quite a young person.” Mrs. May sank gradually back in her chair, as though she were slowly pushed by an invisible finger. “_Do_ they?” The query was almost inaudible. “Of course they do! And upon my soul, it’s rather trying to a man! You ought to sympathise, but you don’t!” “Well, I really can’t see what’s to be done!” she murmured, closing her eyes in sheer weariness. “Diana cannot help getting older, poor thing!--and she’s our child----” “Don’t I know she’s our child?” he snapped out. “What do you keep on telling me that for?”