Slowly, and with a vague reluctance, Diana turned away from the moonlit sea; the murmur of the little waves followed her, like suggestive whispers. A curious change had taken place in her mentality during the last few minutes. She, who was accustomed to think only of others, now thought closely and consistently of herself. She moved quietly towards the house, gliding like a grey ghost across the lawn which showed almost white in the spreading radiance of the moon,--the drawing-room windows were still open, and Mrs. May was still comfortably ensconced in her arm-chair, sleeping soundly and snoring hideously. Her daughter came up and stood beside her, quite unobserved. Nothing could have been more unlovely than the aspect she presented, sunk among the cushions, a mere adipose heap, with her fat cheeks, small nose and open mouth protruding above the folds of a grey woollen shawl which was her favourite evening wear, her resemblance to a pig being more striking than pleasing. But Diana’s watching face expressed nothing but the gentlest solicitude. “Poor mother!” she sighed to herself. “She’s tired! And--and of course, it’s natural she should be disappointed in me. I’ve not been a success! Poor dear mother! God bless her!” She went out of the room noiselessly, and made her way upstairs. She met Grace Laurie. “I’m going to bed, Grace,” she said. “I’ve got a tiresome headache, and shall be better lying down. If mother wants to know where I am, will you tell her?” “Yes, miss. Can I do anything for you?” Grace asked, for, as she often said afterwards, she “thought Miss Diana looked a bit feverish.” “No, thanks very much!” Diana answered in her sweet-voiced, pleasant manner. “Bed is the best place for me. Good-night!” “Good-night, miss.” And Diana entering her own room, locked the door. She was eager to be alone. Her window was open, and she went to that and looked out. All was silent and calm; the night was beautiful. The sea spread itself out in gently heaving stretches of mingled light and shade, and above it bent a sky in which the moon’s increasing splendour swamped the sparkling of the stars. The air was very still,--not a leaf on any small branch of tree or plant stirred. The scent of roses and sweet-briar and honeysuckle floated upwards like incense from the flower altars of the earth. “I am free!” murmured Diana to the hushed night. “Free!” And then, turning, she saw herself in the mirror, as she had already seen herself that day,--only with a greater sense of shock. The evening gown she wore, chosen to please her father’s taste, of dull, dowdy-grey chiffon, intensified her worn and “ageing” look; the colour of her hair was deadened by contrast with it, and in very truth she had at that moment a sad and deplorably jaded aspect. “Free!” she repeated, in self-scorn. “And what is the use of freedom to me at my age!--and with my face and figure!”