r's scrutiny of his companion was somewhat
more attentive and more close than was quite explained by the mere
casual encounter of a man of middle-age with a young and charming girl.
Was he--like herself--aware that matters of moment might be here at
their beginning?

Meanwhile, if Mr. Ferrier was making discoveries, so was Diana. A man,
it appeared, could be not only one of the busiest and most powerful
politicians in England, but also a philosopher, and a reader, one whose
secret tastes were as unworldly and romantic as her own. Books, music,
art--he could handle these subjects no less skilfully than others
political or personal. And, throughout, his deference to a young and
pretty woman was never at fault. Diana was encouraged to talk, and then,
without a word of flattery, given to understand that her talk pleased.
Under this stimulus, her soft dark beauty was soon glowing at its best;
innocence, intelligence, and youth, spread as it were their tendrils
to the sun.

Meanwhile, Sir James Chide, a few yards off, was apparently absorbed
partly in the _Times_, partly in the endeavor to make Lady Lucy's fox
terrier go through its tricks.

Once Mr. Ferrier drew Diana's attention to her neighbor.

"You know him?"

"I never saw him before."

"You know who he is?"

"Ought I?--I am so sorry!"

"He is perhaps the greatest criminal advocate we have. And a very
distinguished politician too.--Whenever our party comes in, he will be
in the Cabinet.--You must make him talk this evening."

"I?" said Diana, laughing and blushing.

"You can!" smiled Mr. Ferrier. "Witness how you have been making me
chatter! But I think I read you right? You do not mind if one
chatters?--if one gives you information?"

"Mind!--How could I be anything but grateful? It puzzles me so--this--"
she hesitated.

"This English life?--especially the political life? Well!--let me be
your guide. I have been in it for a long while."

Diana thanked him, and rose.

"You want your room?" he asked her, kindly.--"Mrs. Fotheringham, I
think, is in the drawing-room. Let me take you to her. But, first, look
at two or three of these pictures as you go."

"These--pictures?" faltered Diana, looking round her, her tone changing.

"Oh, not those horrible frescos! Those were perpetrated by Marsham's
father. They represent, as you see, the different processes of the Iron
Trade. Old Henry Marsham liked them, because, as he said, they explained
him, and the hou