“Mother,” said Dimitrius, “I have at last found the lady who is willing to assist me in my work--here she is. She has come from England--let me introduce her. Miss Diana May,--Madame Dimitrius.” “You are very welcome,”--and Madame Dimitrius held out both hands to Diana, with an expressive kindness which went straight to the solitary woman’s heart. “It is indeed a relief to me to know that my son is satisfied! He has such great ideas!--such wonderful schemes!--alas, I cannot follow or comprehend them!--I am not clever! You have walked from Geneva?--and no breakfast? My dear, sit down,--the coffee is just made.” And in two or three minutes Diana found herself chatting away at perfect ease, with two of the most intelligent and companionable persons she had ever met,--so that the restraint under which she had suffered for years gradually relaxed, and her own natural wit and vivacity began to sparkle with a brightness it had never known since her choleric father and adipose mother had “sat upon her” once and for all, as a matrimonial failure. Madame Dimitrius encouraged her to talk, and every now and then she caught the dark, almost sombre eyes of Dimitrius himself fixed upon her musingly, so that occasionally the old familiar sense of “wonder” arose in her,--wonder as to how all her new circumstances would arrange themselves,--what her work would be--and what might result from the whole strange adventure. But when, after breakfast, she was shown the beautiful “suite” of apartments destined for her occupation, with windows commanding a glorious view of the lake and the Mont Blanc chain of mountains, and furnished with every imaginable comfort and luxury, she was amazed and bewildered at the extraordinary good luck which had befallen her, and said so openly without the slightest hesitation. Madame Dimitrius seemed amused at the frankness of her admiration and delight. “This is nothing for us to do,” she said, kindly. “You will have difficult and intricate work and much fatigue of brain; you will need repose and relaxation in your own apartments, and we have made them as comfortable as we can. There are plenty of books, as you see,--and the piano is a ‘bijou grand,’ very sweet in tone. Do you play?” “A little,” Diana admitted. “Play me something now!” Obediently she sat down, and her fingers wandered as of themselves into a lovely “prélude” of Chopin’s--a tangled maze of delicate tones which crossed and recrossed each other like the silken flowers of fine tapestry. The instrument she played on was delicious in touch and quality, and she became so absorbed in the pleasure of playing that she almost forgot her listeners. When she stopped she looked up, and saw Dimitrius watching her. “Excellent! You have a rare gift!” he said. “You play like an artist and _thinker_.” She coloured with a kind of confusion,--she had seldom or never been praised for any accomplishment she possessed. Madame Dimitrius smiled at her, with tears in her eyes.