“Don’t know and don’t care!” said Sophy, recklessly. “I’m not a grasping creditor. And something tells me you are going to be very rich!--perhaps this man Dimitrius is a millionaire and wants a clever woman for his wife--a sort of Madame Curie to help him with his experiments----” “Then I shall not suit him,” interrupted Diana, “for I never intend to be wife to any man. First of all, I’m too old--secondly, if I were young again, I wouldn’t. It isn’t worth while!” “But didn’t you say you wanted to be loved?” queried Sophy. “Does marriage always fulfil that need?” counter-queried Diana. They exchanged glances--smiled--shrugged shoulders and dropped the conversation. Two days later Diana left England for Geneva. CHAPTER VII Geneva is one of those many towns in Switzerland which give the impression of neat commonplace in the midst of romance,--the same impression which is conveyed by a housewife’s laying out of domestic linen in the centre of a beautiful garden. The streets are clean and regular,--the houses well-built and characterless, sometimes breaking forth into “villas” of fantastic appearance and adornment, which display an entire absence of architectural knowledge or taste,--the shops are filled with such trifles as are likely to appeal to tourists, but have little to offer of original production that cannot be purchased more satisfactorily elsewhere, and the watches that glitter in the chief jeweller’s window on the Quai des Bergues are nothing better than one sees in the similar windows of Bond Street or Regent Street. There is nothing indeed remarkable about Geneva itself beyond its historic associations and memories of famous men, such as Calvin and Rousseau;--its chief glory is gained from its natural surroundings of blue lake and encircling chain of mountains, with Mont Blanc towering up in the distance, “In a wreath of mist, By the sunlight kiss’d, And a diadem of snow.”