“Miss Diana came down at about six this morning,” she said. “And Jenny, the kitchen-maid, was the only one of us up. She was cleaning the doorstep, and moved her pail for Miss Diana to pass. Miss Diana had on her navy blue serge and black straw sailor hat, and she carried what Jenny thought were her bathing things hanging over her arm. She was very bright and said: ‘Good-morning, Jenny! I’m going for a dip in the sea before the sun gets too hot.’ And so she went.” “And so she went--Amen!” said Mr. May, biting a hard bit of toast noisily. “And so she’ll come back, and wonder what all the deuced fuss is about. As if a woman of her age couldn’t go for a bath and a walk without being inquired after as if she were a two-year-old! Are you going to have your breakfast, Margaret?--or do you prefer to read your letters first?” His wife made no reply. She was watching the boiling of an egg in a small, specially constructed vessel for the purpose, which Diana had added to the conveniences of the breakfast table. She was annoyed that Diana herself was not there to attend to it. Diana always knew when the egg was done to a turn. Grace still lingered in the room. Mrs. May, languidly raising her fish-like eyes, saw her. “You can go, Grace.” “Yes, ’m. Shall I just run out to the shore and see if Miss Diana is coming?” “Yes. And tell her to make haste back--I want her to do some shopping in the village for me.” Grace left the room, closing the door behind her. A clock on the mantelpiece gave several little sharp ting-tings. “What time is that?” asked Mrs. May. “Ten o’clock,” replied her husband, unfolding the day’s newspaper and beginning to read. “Dear me! How very extraordinary of Diana to be out from six in the morning till now!” And with the aid of a spoon she carefully lifted the egg she had been watching as though it were the most precious object in life out of the boiling water, in mournful doubt as to whether, after all, it really was done perfectly. “It’s so unlike her.” “Well, you may be pretty certain no one has run away with her,” said Mr. May, ironically. “She’s safe enough. The ‘dear child’ has not eloped!” Mrs. May ignored both his words and his manner. She looked at him meditatively over the lid of the silver teapot and permitted herself to smile,--a small, fat, pursy smile. “Those white flannels have got rather tight for you, haven’t they?” she suggested. He flushed indignantly. “Tight? Certainly not! Do they _look_ tight?” “Well--just a little!--but of course white always makes one appear stout----” “Stout! _You_ talk about stoutness? _You!_ Why, I’m a paper-knife compared to you!--a positive paper-knife! I believe you actually grudge my wearing white flannels!” His wife laughed. “Indeed, no!” she declared. “It amuses me! I rather like it!” “I should think you did!” he retorted. “Or, if you don’t, you ought to!” She surveyed him pensively with round, lacklustre eyes.