* * * *

Diana had been busy in the hanging of some last pictures in the
drawing-room--photographs from Italian pictures and monuments. They had
belonged to her father, and had been the dear companions of her
childhood. Each, as she handled it, breathed its own memory; of the
little villa on the Portofino road, with its green shutters, and rooms
closed against the sun; or of the two short visits to Lucca and Florence
she had made with her father.

Among the photographs was one of the "Annunciation" by Donatello, which
glorifies the southern wall of Santa Croce. Diana had just hung it in a
panelled corner, where its silvery brilliance on dark wood made a point
of pleasure for the eye. She lingered before it, wondering whether it
would please _him_ when he came. Unconsciously her life had slipped into
this habit of referring all its pains and pleasures to the unseen
friend--holding with him that constant dialogue of the heart without
which love neither begins nor grows.

Yet she no longer dreamed of discussing Fanny, and the perplexities
Fanny had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham. Money affairs
must be kept to one's self; and somehow Fanny's visit had become neither
more nor less than a money affair.

That morning Diana had received a letter from old Mr. Riley, the head of
the firm of Riley & Bonner--a letter which was almost a lecture. If the
case were indeed urgent, said Mr. Riley, if the money must be found, she
could, of course, borrow on her securities, and the firm would arrange
it for her. But Mr. Riley, excusing himself as her father's old friend,
wrote with his own hand to beg her to consider the matter further. Her
expenses had lately been many, and some of her property might possibly
decline in value during the next few years. A prudent management of her
affairs was really essential. Could not the money be gradually saved out
of income?

Diana colored uncomfortably as she thought of the letter. What did the
dear old man suppose she wanted the money for? It hurt her pride that
she must appear in this spendthrift light to eyes so honest and
scrupulous.

But what could she do? Fanny poured out ugly reports of her mother's
financial necessities to Muriel Colwood; Mrs. Colwood repeated them to
Diana. And the Mertons were Diana's only kinsfolk. The claim of blood
pressed her hard.

Meanwhile, with a shrinking distaste, she had tried to avoid the
personal discussion of t