Colwood differed from her led to all the more conversation.

"My father would never come home," sighed Diana. "He hated the English
climate, even in summer. Every year I used to beg him to let us go to
England. But he never would. We lived abroad, first, I suppose, for his
health, and then--I can't explain it. Perhaps he thought he had been so
long away he would find no old friends left. And indeed so many of them
had died. But whenever I talked of it he began to look old and ill. So I
never could press it--never!"

The girl's voice fell to a lower note--musical, and full of memory. Mrs.
Colwood noticed the quality of it.

"Of course if my mother had lived," said Diana, in the same tone, "it
would have been different."

"But she died when you were a child?"

"Eighteen years ago. I can just remember it. We were in London then.
Afterwards father took me abroad, and we never came back. Oh! the waste
of all those years!"

"Waste?" Mrs. Colwood probed the phrase a little. Diana insisted, first
with warmth, and then with an eloquence that startled her companion,
that for an Englishwoman to be brought up outside England, away from
country and countrymen, was to waste and forego a hundred precious
things that might have been gathered up. "I used to be ashamed when I
talked to English people. Not that we saw many. We lived for years and
years at a little villa near Rapallo, and in the summer we used to go up
into the mountains, away from everybody. But after we came back from a