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"Diane," he went on, reaching out and quietly taking possession of one of her hands, and raising it till the bared wrist displayed the cruel bruise encircling it, "no man has a right to lay a hand upon a woman to give her pain. A woman has a right to look to her men-folk to protect her, and when they fail her, she is indeed in sore straits.
"Oh, Camus is like a dog that loves biting, a dog that would bite his own master in default of anyone else. Yes; he is there still. As for his turning on you, that is part of his duty; he has been for years a paid servant of Diane." "How long is this woman to last?" "As long as her roses.
This complication was almost more than Miss Lucilla's quietly working intellect could seize, and she followed Diane's succeeding words with but a wandering attention. She understood, however, that, next to being justified by Bienville, Diane attached importance to the aid she expected from Mrs. Eveleth.
"Of course he has. Be a good sport, Gordon. Don't kick on the umpire's decision. Play the game." "That's all very well. But what about her? Am I to sit quiet while she is sacrificed to a code of honor that seems to me rooted in dishonor?" "She is not being sacrificed. I'm her cousin. I'm very fond of her. And I'd trust her with Colby Macdonald." "Play fair, Diane.
There was mystery in the lovely dusk of Diane's eyes and discontent and something mute and wistful crying for expression. "I've a proposition to make," said Carl lightly. "It's partly commercial, partly belated justice, partly eugenic and partly personal." "Your money is quite gone, is it not?" asked Diane, raising finely arched expressive eyebrows. "It is," admitted Carl ruefully.
Standing where his words had stopped her, a few yards away, she looked up at him with the clear gaze of astonishment; but the slight shrug of the shoulders before she spoke was also a trick caught from Diane, and not calculated to allay his annoyance. "Very well, father," she answered, with a quietness indicating judgment held in reserve, "I won't do it again.
The last new song or 'bon mot' and the gossip of the day were the sole topics of conversation in the Queen's parties. Wit was banished from them. The Comtesse Diane, more inclined to literary pursuits than her sister-in-law, one day, recommended her to read the "Iliad" and "Odyssey."
Strange that the narrating of this incident made Diane Sampson unhappy. When I told her she exhibited one flash of gladness, such as any woman might have shown for a noble deed and then she became thoughtful, almost gloomy, sad. I could not understand her complex emotions.
If I'd only listened instead of worrying about my knees and the revolver, and staring so. And you in the Everglades where your father went to hunt alligators. Oh, Diane, Diane, not a single night could I sleep and it's not to be wondered at that I was scared. And the dance you did for Nathalie Fowler and me and the costume that night at Sherrill's. I was fairly sick!
Diane had been told the first part of the doctor's pronouncement, and recommended by her husband to "rouse herself" out of her apathetic state. "'No specific disease!" she repeated bitterly, as she sat brooding in the firelight. "No only this death in life which I have had to endure. Well, it will be over soon and the sooner the better."
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