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.”
The suburbs are far more attractive than the town; for, beyond
the radius of the streets and the hateful, incessant noise of the
electric trams, there are many charming residences set among richly
wooded grounds and brilliant parterres of flowers, where the most
fastidious lover of loveliness might find satisfaction for the eyes
and rest for the mind, especially on the road towards Mont Salève and
Mornex. Here one sees dazzling mists streaming off the slopes of the
mountains,--exquisite tints firing the sky at sunrise and sunset, and
mirrored in the infinite blue of the lake,--and even in the heats of
summer, a delicious breeze blows over the fresh green fields with
the cold scent of the Alpine snow in its breath. And here on a fresh
beautiful autumn morning Diana May found herself walking swiftly along
with light and eager steps, her whole being alive with interested
anticipation. Never had she felt so well; health bounded in her pulse
and sparkled in her eyes, and the happy sense of perfect freedom gave
to every movement of her thin, supple figure, that elasticity and grace
which are supposed to be the special dower of extreme youth, though,
as a matter of fact, youth is often ungainly in action and cumbersome
in build. She had stayed two days and nights at a quiet little hotel
in Geneva on arrival, in order to rest well and thoroughly, after
her journey from England before presenting herself at the Château
Fragonard, the residence of the mysterious Dr. Dimitrius; and she
had made a few casual yet careful inquiries as to the Château and
its owner. Nobody seemed to know more than that “Monsieur le Docteur
Dimitrius” was a rich man, and that his Château had been built for him
by a celebrated French architect who had spared neither labour nor
cost. He was understood to be a scientist, very deeply absorbed in
difficult matters of research,--he was unmarried and lived alone with
his mother. Just now he had so much to do that he was advertising in
all the papers for “an intellectual elderly lady” to assist him. Diana
was indebted for this last “personal note” to a chatty bookseller in
the Rue du Mont Blanc. She smiled as she listened, turning over some
of the cheap fiction on his counter.
“He is not suited yet?” she inquired.
“Ah, no, Madame! It is not likely he will be suited! For what lady will
admit herself to be sufficiently elderly? Ah, no? It is not possible!”
Later on, she learned that the Château Fragonard was situated some
distance out of Geneva, and well off the high road.
“Madame wishes to see the grounds?” inquired the cheery driver of
a little carriage plying for hire. “It would be necessary to ask
permission. But they are very fine!--Ah, wonderful!--as fine as those
of Rothschild! And if one were not admitted, it is easy to take a boat,
and view them from the lake! The lawns slope to the water’s edge.”
“Exquisite!” murmured Diana to herself. “It will be worth while trying
to remain in such a paradise!”
And she questioned the willingly communicative _cocher_ as to how long
it might take to walk to the Château?
“About an hour,” he replied. “A pleasant walk, too, Madame! One sees
the lake and mountains nearly all the way.”
This information decided her as to her plans. She knew that the
eccentric wording of the Dimitrius advertisement required any applicant
to present herself between six and eight in the morning, which was an
ideal time for a walk in the bracing, brilliant Alpine air. So she
determined to go on foot the very next day; and before she parted with
the friendly driver, she had ascertained the exact position of the
Château, and the easiest and quickest way to get there.
And now,--having risen with the first peep of dawn, and attired herself
in that becoming navy serge “model,” which her astute friend Sophy had
borne triumphantly out of the French tailor’s emporium, she was on her
way to the scene of her proposed adventure. She walked at a light,
rapid pace--the morning was bright and cool, almost cold when the wind
blew downward from the mountains, and she was delightfully conscious
of that wonderful exhilaration and ease given to the whole physical
frame by a clear atmosphere, purified by the constant presence of ice
and snow. As she moved along in happiest mood, she thought of many
things;--she was beginning to be amazed, as well as charmed, by the
various changes which had, within a week, shaken her lately monotonous
life into brilliant little patterns like those in a kaleidoscope. The
web and woof of Circumstance was no longer all dull grey, like the
colour her father had judged most suitable for her now that she was no
longer young,--threads of rose and sky blue had found their hopeful way
into the loom. Her days of housekeeping, checking tradesmen’s bills and
flower-arranging seemed a very long way off; it was hardly credible to
her mind that but a short time ago she had been responsible for the
ordering of her parents’ lunches and dinners and the general management
of the summer “change” at Rose Lea on the coast of Devon,--that fatal
coast where she had been so cruelly drowned! Before leaving London,
she had seen a few casual paragraphs in the newspapers concerning this
disaster, headed “Bathing Fatality”--“Sad End of a Lady”--or “Drowned
while Bathing,” but, naturally, being a nobody, she had left no gap
in society,--she was only one of many needless women. And it was an
altogether new and aspiring Diana May that found herself alive on this
glorious morning in Switzerland; not the resigned, patient, orderly
“old maid” with a taste for Jacobean embroidery and a wholesome dislike
of the “snap-snap-snarl” humours of her father.
“I never seem to have been my own real self till now!” she said
inwardly. “And now I hardly realise that I have a father and mother
at all! What a tyrannical bogy I have made of my ‘duty’ to them! And
‘love’ is another bogy!”
She glanced at her watch,--one of Sophy Lansing’s numerous dainty
trifles--“Keep it in exchange,” Sophy had said, “for yours which your
bereaved parents are going to send me as an ‘In Memoriam’!” It was
ten minutes to seven. Looking about her to take note of her bearings,
she saw on the left-hand side a deep bend in the road, which curved
towards a fine gateway of wrought iron, surmounted by a curious
device representing two crossed spears springing from the centre of
a star,--and she knew she had arrived at her destination. Her heart
beat a little more quickly as she approached the gateway--there was
no keeper’s lodge, so she pulled at a handle which dimly suggested
the possibility of a bell. There was no audible response,--but to
all appearance the gates noiselessly unbarred themselves, and slowly
opened. She entered at once without hesitation, and they as slowly
closed behind her. She was in the grounds of the Château Fragonard.
Immense borders of heliotrope in full bloom fringed either side of the
carriage drive where she stood, and the mere lifting of her eyes showed
masses of flowering shrubs and finely-grown trees bending their shadowy
branches over velvety stretches of rich green grass, or opening in
leafy archways here and there to disclose enchanting glimpses of blue
water or dazzling peaks of far-off snow. She would have been glad to
linger among such lovely surroundings, for she had a keen comprehension
of and insight into the beauty of Nature and all the joys it offers to
a devout and discerning spirit, but she bethought herself that if Dr.
Dimitrius was anything of an exact or punctilious person, he would
expect an applicant to be rather before than after time. A silver-toned
chime, striking slowly and musically on the sunlit silence, rang seven
o’clock as she reached the Château, which looked like a miniature
palace of Greek design, and was surrounded with a broad white marble
loggia, supported by finely fluted Ionic columns, between two of which
on each side a fountain played. But Diana had scarcely time to look at
anything while quickly ascending the short flight of steps leading to
the door of entrance; she saw a bell and was in haste to ring it. Her
summons was answered at once by a negro servant dressed in unassuming
dark livery.
“Dr. Dimitrius?” she queried.
The negro touched his lips with an expressive movement signifying that
he was dumb,--but he was not deaf, for he nodded an affirmative to her
inquiry, and by a civil gesture invited her to enter. In another few
seconds she found herself in a spacious library--a finely proportioned
room, apparently running the full length of the house, with large
French windows at both ends, commanding magnificent views.
Left alone for several minutes, she moved about half timidly, half
boldly, looking here and there--at the great globes, celestial and
terrestrial, which occupied one corner,--at the long telescope on its
stand ready for use and pointed out to the heavens--and especially at a
curious instrument of fine steel set on a block of crystal, which swung
slowly up and down incessantly, striking off an infinitesimal spark of
fire as it moved.
“Some clock-work thing,” she said half aloud. “But where is its
mechanism?”
“Ah, where!” echoed a deep, rather pleasant voice close at her ear.
“That, as Hamlet remarked, is the question!”
She started and turned quickly with a flush of colour mounting to her
brows,--a man of slight build and medium height stood beside her.
“You are Dr. Dimitrius?” she said.
He smiled. “Even so! I am he! And you----?”
Swiftly she glanced him over. He was not at all an alarming, weird,
or extraordinary-looking personage. Young?--yes, surely young for a
man--not above forty; and very personable, if intelligent features,
fine eyes and a good figure can make a man agreeable to outward view.
And yet there was something about him more than mere appearance,--she
could not tell what it was, and just then she had no time to consider.
She rushed at once into the business of her errand.
“My name is May,--Diana May,” she said, conscious of nervousness
in speaking, but mastering herself by degrees. “I have come from
England in answer to your advertisement. I am interested--very deeply
interested--in matters of modern science, and I have gained some little
knowledge through a good deal of personal, though quite unguided
study. I am most anxious to be useful--and I am not afraid to take any
risks----”
She broke off, a little confused under the steady scrutiny of Dr.
Dimitrius’s eyes. He placed an easy chair by the nearest window. “Pray
sit down!” he said, with a courteous gesture,--then, as she obeyed:
“You have walked here from Geneva?”
“Yes.”
“When did you arrive from England?”
“Two days ago.”
“Have you stated to anyone the object of your journey?”
“Only to one person--an intimate woman friend who lent me the money for
my travelling expenses.”
“I see!” And Dimitrius smiled benevolently. “You have not explained
yourself or your intentions to any good Genevese hotel proprietor?”
She looked up in quick surprise.
“No, indeed!”
“Wise woman!” Here Dimitrius drew up a chair opposite to her and
sat down. “My experience has occasionally shown me that lone ladies
arriving in a strange town and strange hotel, throw themselves, so to
speak, on the bosom of the book-keeper or the landlady, and to her
impart their whole business. It is a mistake!--an error of confiding
innocence--but it is often made. You have _not_ made it,--and that is
well! You have never married?”
Diana coloured--then answered with gentleness:
“No. I am what is called a spinster,--an old maid.”
“The first is by far the prettiest name,” said Dimitrius. “It evokes a
charming vision of olden time when women sat at their spinning wheels,
each one waiting for Faust, _à la Marguerite_, unaware of the Devil
behind him! ‘Old maid’ is a coarse English term,--there _are_ coarse
English terms! and much as I adore England and the English, I entirely
disapprove of their ‘horseplay’ on women! No doubt you know what I
mean?”
“I think I do,” replied Diana, slowly. “It is that when a woman is
neither a man’s bound slave nor his purchased toy, she is turned into a
jest.”
“Precisely! You have expressed it perfectly!” and his keen eyes flashed
over her comprehensively. “But let us keep to business. You are a
spinster, and I presume you are, in the terms of my advertisement,
‘alone in the world, without claims on your time or your affections.’
Is that so?”
Quietly she answered:
“That is so.”
“Now you will remember I asked for ‘a courageous and determined woman
of mature years.’ You do not look very ‘mature’----”
“I am past forty,” said Diana.
“A frank, but unnecessary admission,” he answered, smiling. “You should
never admit to more years than your appearance gives you. However, I
am glad you told me, as it better suits my purpose. And you consider
yourself ‘courageous and determined’?”
She looked at him straightly.
“I think I am--I hope I am,” she said. “I have had many disillusions
and have lost all I once hoped to win; so that I can honestly say even
death would not matter to me, as I have nothing to live for. Except the
love of Nature and its beauty----”
“And its wisdom and mastery of all things,” finished Dimitrius. “And to
feel that unless we match its wisdom with our will to be instructed,
and its mastery with our obedience and worship, we ‘shall surely die’!”
His eyes flashed upon her with a curious expression, and just for a
passing moment she felt a little afraid of him. He went on, speaking
with deliberate emphasis:
“Yes,--if you are indeed a student of Nature, you surely know _that_!
And you know also that the greatest, deepest, most amazing, and most
enlightening discoveries made in science during the last thirty years
or so are merely the result of cautious and sometimes casual probing of
one or two of this vast Nature’s smaller cells of active intelligence.
We have done something,--but how much remains to do!”
He paused,--and Diana gazed at him questioningly. He smiled as he met
her eager and interested look.
“We shall have plenty of time to talk of these matters,” he said--“if I
decide that you can be useful to me. What languages do you know besides
your own?”
“French, Italian and a little Russian,” she answered. “The two first
quite fluently,--Russian I have studied only quite lately--and I find
it rather difficult----”
“Being a Russian myself I can perhaps make it easy for you,” said
Dimitrius, kindly. “To study such a language without a teacher shows
considerable ambition and energy on your part.”
She flushed a little at the mere suggestion of praise and sat silent.
“I presume you have quite understood, Miss May,” he presently resumed,
in a more formal tone, “that I require the services of an assistant
for one year at least--possibly two years. If I engage you, you must
sign an agreement with me to that effect. Another very special point
is that of confidence. Nothing that you do, see, or hear while working
under my instructions is ever to pass your lips. You must maintain the
most inviolable secrecy, and when once you are in this house you must
neither write letters nor receive them. If you are, as I suggested in
my advertisement, ‘alone in the world, without any claims on your time
or your affections,’ you will not find this a hardship. My experiments
in chemistry may or may not give such results as I hope for, but while
I am engaged upon them I want no imitative bunglers attempting to get
on the same line. Therefore I will run no risks of even the smallest
hint escaping as to the nature of my work.”
Diana bent her head in assent.
“I understand,” she said--“And I am quite willing to agree to your
rules. I should only wish to write one letter, and that I can do from
the hotel,--just to return the money my friend lent me for my expenses.
And I should ask you to advance me that sum out of whatever salary you
offer. Then I need give no further account of myself. Sophy,--that is
my friend--would write to acknowledge receipt of the money, and then
our correspondence would end.”
“This would not vex or worry you?” inquired Dimitrius.
She smiled. “I am past being vexed or worried at anything!” she said.
“Life is just a mere ‘going on’ for me now, with thankfulness to find
even a moment of interest in it as I go!”
Dimitrius rose from his chair and walked up and down, his hands
clasped behind his back. She watched him in fascinated attention, with
something of suspense and fear lest after all he should decide against
her. She noted the supple poise of his athletic figure, clad in a
well-cut, easy summer suit of white flannels,--his dark, compact head,
carried with a certain expression of haughtiness, and last, but not
least, his hands, which in their present careless attitude nevertheless
expressed both power and refinement.
Suddenly he wheeled sharply round and stood, facing her.
“I think you will do,” he said,--and her heart gave a quick throb of
relief which, unconsciously to herself, suffused her pale face with a
flush of happiness--“I think I shall find in you obedience, care, and
loyalty. But there is yet an important point to consider,--do you, in
your turn, think you can put up with _me_? I am very masterful, not to
say obstinate; I will have no ‘scamp’ work,--I am often very impatient,
and I can be extremely disagreeable. You must take all this well into
your consideration, for I am perfectly honest with you when I say I am
not easy to serve. And remember!”--here he drew a few steps closer to
her and looked her full in the eyes--“the experiments on which I am
engaged are highly dangerous,--and, as I stated in my advertisement,
you must not be ‘afraid to take risks,’--for if you agree to assist me
in the testing of certain problems in chemistry, it may cost you your
very life!”
She smiled.
“It’s very kind of you to prepare me for all the difficulties and
dangers of my way,” she said. “And I thank you! But I have no fear.
There is really nothing to be afraid of,--one can but die once. If you
will take me, I’ll do my faithful best to obey your instructions in
every particular, and so far as is humanly possible, you shall have
nothing to complain of.”
He still bent his eyes searchingly upon her.
“You have a good nerve?”
“I think so.”
“You must be sure of that! My laboratory is not a place for hesitation,
qualms, or terrors,” he said. “The most amazing manifestations occur
there sometimes----”
“I have said I am not afraid,” interrupted Diana, with a touch of
pride. “If you doubt my word, let me go,--but if you are disposed to
engage me, please accept me at my own valuation.”
He laughed, and his face lightened with kindliness and humour.
“I like that!” he said. “I see you have some spirit! Good! Now, to
business. I have made up my mind that you will suit me,--and you have
also apparently made up your mind that _I_ shall suit _you_. Very well.
Your salary with me will be a thousand a year----”
Diana uttered a little cry.
“A thou--a thousand a year!” she ejaculated. “Oh, you mean a thousand
francs?”
“No, I don’t. I mean a thousand good British pounds sterling,--the
risks you will run in working with me are quite worth that. You will
have your own suite of rooms and your own special hours of leisure for
private reading and study, and all your meals will be supplied, though
we should like you to share them with us at our table, if you have no
objection. And when you are not at work, or otherwise engaged, I should
be personally very much obliged if you would be kind and companionable
to my mother.”
Diana could scarcely speak; she was overwhelmed by what she considered
the munificence and generosity of his offer.
“You are too good,” she faltered. “You wish to give me more than my
abilities merit----”
“I must be the best judge of that,” he said, and moving to a table desk
in the centre of the room he opened a drawer and took out a paper.
“Will you come here and read this? And then sign it?”
She went to his side, and taking the paper from his hand, read it
carefully through. It was an agreement, simply and briefly worded,
which bound her as confidential assistant and private secretary
to Féodor Dimitrius for the time of one year positively, with the
understanding that this period should be extended to two years, if
agreeable to both parties. Without a moment’s hesitation, she took
up a pen, dipped it in ink, and signed it in a clear and very firmly
characteristic way.
“A good signature!” commented Dimitrius. “If handwriting expresses
anything, you should be possessed of a strong will and a good brain.
Have you ever had occasion to exercise either?”
Diana thought a moment--then laughed.
“Yes!--in a policy of repression!”
A humorous sparkle in his eyes responded to her remark.
“I understand! Well, now”--and he put away the signed agreement in a
drawer of his desk and locked it--“you must begin to obey me at once!
You will first come and have some breakfast, and I’ll introduce you
to my mother. Next, you will return to your hotel in Geneva, pay your
bill, and remove your luggage. I can show you a short cut back to the
town, through these grounds and by the border of the lake. By the way,
how much do you owe your friend in England?”
“About a hundred pounds.”
“Here is an English bank-note for that sum,” said Dimitrius, taking it
from a roll of paper money in his desk. “Send it to her in a registered
letter. And here is an extra fifty pound note for any immediate
expenses,--you will understand you have drawn this money in advance of
your salary. Now when you get to your hotel, have your luggage taken to
the railway station and left in the Salle des Bagages,--they will give
you a number for it. Then when all this is done, walk quietly back here
by the same private path through the grounds which you will presently
become acquainted with, and I will send a man I sometimes employ from
Mornex, to fetch your belongings here. In this way the good gossiping
folk of Geneva will be unable to state what has become of you, or where
you have chosen to go. You follow me?”
“Quite!” answered Diana--“And I shall obey you in every particular.”
“Good! Now come and see my mother.”
He showed her into an apartment situated on the other side of the
entrance hall--a beautiful room, lightly and elegantly furnished,
where, at a tempting-looking breakfast table, spread with snowy linen,
delicate china and glittering silver, sat one of the most picturesque
old ladies possible to imagine. She rose as her son and Diana entered
and advanced to meet them with a charming grace--her tall slight
figure, snow-white hair, and gentle, delicate face, lit up with the
tenderest of blue eyes, making an atmosphere of attractive influence
around her as she moved.
“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.
“Such music takes me back to my youth,” she said. “All the old days of
hope and promise! ... Ah! ... you will play to me often?”
“Whenever you like,” answered Diana, with a thrill of tenderness in her
always sweet voice,--she was beginning to feel an affection for this
charming and dignified old lady, who had not outlived sentiment so far
as to be unmoved by the delicate sorrows of Chopin. “You have only to
ask me.”
“And now,” put in Dimitrius, “as you know where you will live, you must
go back to Geneva and get your luggage, in the way I told you. We’ll
go together through the grounds,--it’s half an hour’s walk instead of
nearly two hours by the road.”
“It did not seem like two hours this morning,” said Diana.
“No, I daresay not. You were eager to get here, and walking in
Switzerland is always more delight than fatigue. But it is actually a
two hours’ walk. Our private way is easier and prettier.”
“_Au revoir!_” smiled Madame Dimitrius. “You, Féodor, will be in to
luncheon,--and you, Miss May?----”
“I give her leave of absence till the afternoon,” said Dimitrius. “She
must return in time for that English consoler of trouble--tea!” He
laughed, and with a light parting salute to his mother, preceded Diana
by a few steps to show the way. She paused a moment with a look half
shy, half wistful at the kindly Madame Dimitrius.
“Will you try to like me?” she said, softly. “Somehow, I have missed
being liked! But I don’t think I’m really a disagreeable person!”
Madame took her gently by both hands and kissed her.
“Have courage, my dear!” she said. “I like you already! You will be a
help to my son,--and I feel that you will be patient with him! That
will be enough to win more than my liking--my love!”
With a grateful look and smile Diana nodded a brief adieu, and followed
Dimitrius, who was already in the garden waiting for her.
“Women must always have the last word!” he said, with a good-humoured
touch of irony. “And even when they are enemies, they kiss!”
She raised her eyes frankly to his.
“That’s true!” she answered. “I’ve seen a lot of it! But your mother
and I could never be enemies, and I--well, I am grateful for even a
‘show’ of liking.”
He looked surprised.
“Have you had so little?” he queried. “And you care for it?”
“Does not everyone care for it?”
“No. For example, I do not. I have lived too long to care. I know what
love or liking generally mean--love especially. It means a certain
amount of pussy-cat comfort for one’s self. Now, though all my efforts
are centred on comfort in the way of perfect health and continuous
enjoyment of life for this ‘Self’ of ours, I do not care for the mere
pussy-cat pleasure of being fondled to see if I will purr. I have no
desire to be a purring animal.”
Diana laughed--a gay, sweet laugh that rang out as clearly and
youthfully as a girl’s. He gave her a quick, astonished glance.
“I amuse you?” he inquired, with a slight touch of irritation.
“Yes, indeed! But don’t be vexed because I laugh! You--you mustn’t
imagine that anybody wants to make you ‘purr!’ _I_ don’t! I’d rather
you growled, like a bear!” She laughed again. “We shall get on
splendidly together,--I know we shall!”
He walked a few paces in silence.
“I think you are younger than you profess to be,” he said, at last.
“I wish I were!” she answered, fervently. “Alas, alas! it’s no use
wishing. I cannot ‘go like a crab, backwards.’ Though just now I feel
like a mere kiddie, ready to run all over these exquisite gardens and
look at everything, and find out all the prettiest nooks and corners.
What a beautiful place this is!--and how fortunate I am to have found
favour in your eyes! It will be perfect happiness for me just to live
here!”
Dimitrius looked pleased.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said--and taking a key from his pocket, he
handed it to her. “Here we are coming to the border of the lake, and
you can go on alone. Follow the private path till you come to a gate
which this key will open--then turn to the left, up a little winding
flight of steps, under trees--this will bring you out to the high road.
I suppose you know the way to your hotel when you are once in the town?”
“Yes,--and I shall know my way back again to the Château this
afternoon,” she assured him. “It’s kind of you to have come thus far
with me. You are breaking your morning’s work.”
He smiled. “My morning’s work can wait,” he said. “In fact, most of my
work _must_ wait--till you come!”
With these words he raised his hat in courteous salutation and left
her, turning back through his grounds--while she went on her way
swiftly and alone.