anything unless it pleased her to do it. And yet she said
"must. "
" It's not silly," she said, seriously. Her mood had changed
again. She was seldom serious.
"It is excellent," she continued, slowly. "I must be able
to do something for myself. Some day I shall be alone, de
pendent upon myself. lam preparing now."
I could not understand this Diana. She was different from
any of her score of other selves. The idea of her being alone
in the world appeared amusing. I smiled indulgently. She
resented my levity.
"You men may laugh," she said, "because you can face the
world alone and gain a livelihood in a thousand ways. But a
woman
She faltered, and'there was a suspicious lustre in her eyes.
The mere suggestion of tears—of Diana in tears—was
heartrending. I loved her so dearly. Her wound was my
wound also.
"How queerly you talk," I said, tenderly.
think you were a homeless, friendless orphan."
" Who knows ? " she replied.
pened."
" Unless—" I cried. And then I stopped short. My air
castles came down with a crash. I remembered that I was
poor.
Diana was leaning forward, her chin in her hands, her
elbows on the table, her lips parted expectantly. And in her
eyes a light—what else could it be ? Surely nothing but love
could kindle such a fire—. '
Ah, but I was poor.
"Unless?" interrogated Diana, her eyes still on my face.
The temptation was strong. But I kept back the torrent of
words that sprang to my lips.
" Unless someone—a man with money and a heart full of
love for you—comes and carries you away," I finished with
simulated enthusiasm.
She sat quite still for a moment, her deep eyes reading my
" Stranger things have hap-
" One would