Diana

CHAPTER SIX

Scherer was determined to find out all about her. He knew that Paula Linke was not her real name, and the information bureau to which he applied was soon able to give him further particulars. Her father was a Pole by birth, had been naturalized a German, and had been vice-consul in Macedonia some twenty years ago. Rumour had it that he was a merchant and a dealer in furs. But according to another report he was a savant with private means, and had spent much of his time in exploring out-of-the-way parts of the world. He was now living in England. Diana herself had recently come from Italy, had been engaged in manifold activities, had worked in various institutions, had been a librarian. Her movements were even traced to a riding school in Munich where she had apparently given lessons in horsemanship. Three years ago she had been in this very town for a few months in the company of a certain countess, had been entertained by the Automobile Club, had been a competitor at the regatta, and was supposed to have spent one summer at a country house in Masuria.

Scherer's experience as a man of business had taught him that inquiry agents, when stumped for accurate information, are wont to spin fairy tales. He therefore chose to believe about half of this budget, and it was enough for him to know that the report contained nothing scandalous. As man of the world he exercised the utmost care in regard to his private life, avoiding intimacy with persons whose acquaintance was thrust upon him, and who he considered might be useful to him. He felt amply rewarded when his affairs in this field ran smoothly. On the other hand, as financier, he penetrated into alcoves, private clubs, and bedchambers, for he knew that more money was lost in such places than on the Stock Exchange.

He had been led to make his inquiries because he was possessed of the idea of utilizing Diana's services for a special mission, a mission for which her qualities made her particularly suitable. Every day brought him fresh surprises as to her abilities. He would constantly put her to new tests, would engage her in discussion of the political issues predominant in the countries they were at the moment chiefly concerned with; would ask questions whose answers he himself knew perfectly well; gave answers which he knew to be incorrect. He did not put these tests in any spirit of mockery; indeed, his respect for this woman's intelligence grew from day to day.

At the same time, both were careful to preserve the integrity of their business footing, and their precautions in this were all the greater in proportion as his information assumed a more confidential character. Scherer was pleased to note her aloofness, was delighted with the way in which she deliberately closed all the avenues to a more intimate approach. Yet as man of the world he could not ignore the investigatory gaze of this woman who concealed her inner self behind a veil of silence, while probing him to the core. It was her capacity for judging men and things (a capacity which he felt her exercising in regard to himself with just as fine a penetration as in respect of other personalities) which led him to consolidate his plans.

Yet this man who was bold enough to play with fate, scarcely realized that the magnetic spell of a woman was driving him, all unconscious, into ventures which, though they were not in Eros's realm, might prove no less hazardous in other fields than love.

Diana guessed his plans. She knew that he had big financial interests in the East. So much she had gathered from reports, from letters dealing with company and banking concerns, about which she was occasionally consulted—not always, of course, for she was not Scherer's secretary. "He'll need me down there," she thought, "perhaps he's going to send me...." When, after a while, she realized that he could not dispense with her services, she slipped him into the general machinery of her existence, and started to reckon upon him as a factor in her life, doing so all the more coolly seeing that she was not stirred by him as a man. The days following that night of the opera flowed peacefully by. When she entered her room late on the following day, she found a bunch of white carnations awaiting her. Despite the ill success of his advances, the major could not refrain from celebrating this happy meeting by sending her the loveliest flowers he could find. He was also influenced in his choice by the recollection of all that similar white carnations had meant to him one winter day in a snow-storm. At that time they had been her favourite flowers. His note ran:

"Don't be angry with me. Require of me that I await a sign from you, but do not ask me to take you at your word, for that would rob me of all hope of renewing the most beautiful days of my life. You have fresh conquests to record, the homage of young men and old in the East and in the West. I am turning grey, you saw as much quite clearly when I bent to kiss your lovely hand and that infernal lamp blazed down on me. You are more blooming than ever. I have asked you to share my life and my name. True, my request was bluntly made; I am nothing but a soldier. You have refused me. But I beg you to remember that I shall always look upon myself as your friend. I trust you to give me a chance to be of use to you. Believe me, in any danger that may arise, your unchangeable

"FELIX."

To which she replied:

"Your white carnations are as lovely today as those you gave me years ago. Thank you. I may be leaving before long. It would be nice to take a drive somewhere together. You will be my first thought if ever danger arises.

"DIANA."

As she slipped the note into its envelope and addressed it to him in his new rank, she thought of all the talks they had enjoyed together, talks which had lured him from his humdrum regimental occupations to put his gifts to finer uses, talks which had plucked him from the morass of stereotyped adventures, and, by stimulating his ambition, had led him to more intellectual spheres of activity. "——, Major on the General Staff." Surely that was better than an order, a prize-cup for good horsemanship, or the daily billet-doux in the scented envelope.

Diana loathed the idea of being a "general purveyor of happiness." For her, kindness was not a law unto itself, a regulative principle residing freely within her. Nay, rather, was it apprehended in a lively understanding of things, and was, therefore, easier to lavish upon animals and plants than upon mankind, for in the initial stages of her acquaintance with human beings her combative instinct was invariably aroused. Yet she had ever an urgent inclination towards spurring on to the utmost the individuals with whom she came into contact, and to this task she devoted herself with all the powers of a lively imagination, cultivating it as a fine art.

She glanced from the letter to the flowers and back. Then she smiled as she pondered the reasons for her brother's silence, for he had made no move. Sidney was of an undemonstrative temperament, in absolute contrast to the open-hearted candour of the major. This quality in her brother was an echo of her own character; like her, he was reluctant to show off his knowledge, preferred to withhold at least a portion for his own intimate use, to have reserves in his battle with the world. She knew that he, too, enjoyed observing others while himself remaining unobserved. These cogitations aroused a half-maternal sense of responsibility for Sidney, a feeling that had slumbered in her heart for years since she had first realized all the peril that life held for a man of his disposition. Thinking of him made her wish to find him.

"He must belong to some club or other," she mused. "He could not live without his club! There are four hundred clubs in the telephone book, I'll have to engage a messenger boy to find out the one Sidney belongs to...."

Her inquiry was not successful, and she was left troubled in her mind; for his appearance the other night, his handsome face, his elegance, showed him to be a man of leisure and of means. This seemed to her, in view of his youth, to be full of dangerous possibilities. She must, indeed, find his whereabouts.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The dinner was nearing its end. Among the little party of five men whom the old count had invited to dine with him at the Political Club, the minister for foreign affairs was obviously the guest of honour. True the table was a round one, chosen specially in order to obviate any question of precedence. Yet it was impossible to avoid the impression that the man tucked away in the corner was really the presiding genius. From his place he could keep his eyes on the remainder of the room. The host occupied the seat on the left of the minister. Since he was of a genial disposition, quite innocuous, and above all was no longer regarded as a possible competitor, the younger aspirants to power were glad of his company, for they ran no risk of being compromised, while at the same time they could flaunt a halo of disinterestedness.

To the left of the host sat a naval commander whose youthful face was surmounted by the bald dome of his head. The effect was all the more ludicrous because the sun and the sea air had tanned the face a deep mahogany, while above the line of his cap the skin was shiny and very white. Furthermore, the man was clean-shaven, so that his head gave the effect of an anatomical specimen. The commander was flanked by Diana's friend the major, whose whole countenance was in vivid contrast to that of his neighbour, the two men thus admirably illustrating in their persons the perennial antagonism between the naval and the military arms.

The fourth guest was a professor of economics whose lively bearing and mischievous doctrinairism showed him to be a man of the old school. With the typical arrogance of the learned, he looked down on the man of war to his right, and devoted himself exclusively to his left-hand neighbour. This was Scherer, whom the old count had invited that he and the minister might become acquainted.

When dessert had been placed on the table, the men pushed back their chairs and sat more comfortably. Scherer and the minister entered into close conversation. Thereupon, the other four instinctively drew together for a talk. Scherer sat quietly listening while his neighbour spoke; occasionally he would pull his short, fair moustache, but he said very little. The minister leaned heavily upon the arm of his chair; he was serious of mien, and gazed inquiringly at his companion. It was obvious that the task in hand was not the capture of the statesman, but, rather, that the financier and publisher was the quarry of the evening.

Yet the statesman did not abate by one jot or tittle the arrogant tone that was habitual to him. He was ten years Scherer's senior, it is true, was engaged in a struggle, and was filled with misgivings in regard to the twofold profession of his interlocutor. All this combined to make his subterranean fires glow the brighter, so that his rather heavy countenance was illuminated and made more vivacious by the fight. His face was swarthy and was framed in grizzled hair; his dark eyes were rendered preternaturally large by the huge convex glasses of his spectacles which gave him an unearthly fixation of gaze. Scherer, on the other hand, wore a pince-nez whose elegant poise merely served to enhance the fine line of his features.

"Do you really trust these orientals?" asked the minister softly and yet with precision, for he was coming to the kernel of the matter under discussion.

"There are as many varieties among the peoples of the East as among us westerners," answered Scherer, his metallic voice, as always, ringing true.

The statesman was somewhat irritated by an answer whose banality revealed a desire on Scherer's part to evade the issue. For a moment or two, he toyed with his fruit knife; then, speaking with deliberation:

"I have in mind the present situation. Should we base the whole of our colonial development on the good will of a nation whose resolves may change at any moment, whose French culture will require more than a generation to efface, and whose geographical position lays it open to the advances of any chance comer? The door over there has been flung wide. Is it right that I should order Turkish coffee to be served me in that room when I am not sure whether before I reach it, another member of this club may not bribe the manager to have the doors shut and may not commandeer all the coffee for his own use?"

"Did I hear the delicious words, Turkish coffee?" put in the professor, hoping thereby to bring both conversations to an end. "How would it be to stretch our legs a trifle after the solemn enjoyment of our repast? Pardon me, Count..."

But already the six chairs had been pushed back, and the men made for the stairs, walking in couples, the professor arm-in-arm with the count, while the statesman and Scherer brought up the rear, halting from time to time in order to emphasize some particular point and thereby holding up the remainder of the party, for the count was loath to get separated from his guests. Scherer, who was better acquainted with the East than was his companion, and who had come to realize that the statesman's ethnological arguments were based upon personal distrust of specific personages, now took up his parable from this side. He put a direct question:

"You feel that the present crisis confirms your outlook—justifies a policy that would aim at breaking all the engagements entered into by persons on the spot?"

The other answered with customary evasiveness:

"I perceive the danger of allowing oneself to place too much trust in..."

"And would, therefore, advise against further investment in the railway shares?"

But the minister was not to be coerced into plain speaking, and answered with studied ambiguity:

"I would seek to gain time and to make a cautious retreat."

The minister's main object tonight was to bring the newspaper magnate to an acceptance of his Balkan policy by giving the financier a hint as to the possible course of affairs. Scherer guessed the import of the manœuvre. He was well aware that the minister opposed the political trend towards expansion in the East, and was, in addition, devoured with a jealous suspicion of the ambassador at the centre of present interest. Cautiously avoiding these essential issues, Scherer gazed down at the points of his patent-leather shoes, and asked unconcernedly:

"Your dispatches bring better news today?"

"Dispatches, indeed," fumed the minister. "There are certain people who are unteachable! Twelve hours before the outbreak of hostilities they will still be assuring you of the love these nations feel towards you."

"It is possible that those who are commissioned to look after our interests on the spot do not enjoy your full confidence?"

"Have you implicit confidence in your correspondents, Herr Scherer?"

Scherer gave a short laugh.

"No! But..."

The moment had come when the minister could no longer postpone the decisive question. He assumed the attitude of a fencer about to thrust, an attitude he invariably adopted when dealing with the Opposition in the Lower House, and asked coldly:

"Do you believe in the unerring judgment of our ambassador out there?"

Scherer looked tranquilly into his companion's owl-like eyes, and drawled:

"Unerring? He seems to me a pleasant person. No one is infallible. Surely you don't expect all our ambassadors to be men of genius?"

There was a challenging note in this question, for the financier could certainly not be ignorant of the antipathy the two men felt for one another. The minister, therefore, broke off the conversation by stepping smartly forward to join the rest of the company, while he said loud enough for all to hear:

"I sincerely trust you are right, Herr Scherer, were it only in the interests of the State."

"Have you brought him to heel, Sir," asked the professor jovially. "A marvellous man, this Scherer," continued he, "puts his money in railways that don't work, publishes newspapers in which the reports are as false as the type is heavy, with it all is a European celebrity, and he himself does not know if he owes his notoriety to his wealth or his wit!"

"You are merry, worthy privy councillor," said Scherer good-humouredly. He towered head and shoulders above the professor and was therefore able to lay his hand condescendingly upon the smaller man's shoulder. Every one realized that he was revenging himself for the professor's sally by addressing him with a title the authorities were never likely to bestow. But the little man did not put himself about to correct the error. He merely exclaimed:

"Call me 'colleague,' then at least for a minute I can rejoice in the illusion of sharing your millions!"

"And I the delight of sharing a professorship," laughed Scherer, turning on his heel.

"What a disagreeable person," muttered the commander, wagging his head, and looking coldly at the offending professor.

"Oh, that's a mere nothing," interposed the major. "I've heard the creature lecture at the Colonial Society. He let drop one insult after the other. And there were a number of foreign diplomats present as guests!"

"Men like that do us a lot of harm abroad," retorted the naval officer. "It's by them that our nation is judged."

The party moved on up the stairs, and presently broke up. Scherer and the two officers walked down the street together.

"Do you know these lands?" asked Scherer, addressing himself to his naval friend for the first time that evening.

"Very little. We seafaring men are restricted to the coasts. There's seldom an opportunity to get away inland."

"Which one of us three knows those countries from the inside? I was recently putting the same question to one of our experts in eastern affairs. Oriental politics were supposed to be his speciality. Three times had he been along the caravan route from Konia to Aleppo, had visited Monastir, had gone to see the temples in the Peloponnesus. Each expedition had lasted three weeks. I'll wager that you know more about those places than he does, Commander," said Scherer with a laugh.

"I really know practically nothing. True, my ship was stationed three years in those waters, but one picks up so little trustworthy information."

Scherer gave him an appreciative look.

"Unfortunately our writers fail to realize that! Do you happen to know our ambassador?"

"Slightly, very slightly."

"Shall I seem indiscreet if I ask whether you think he's the right man for the job?"

"The only man!" exclaimed the commander with an emphasis which in any one else might have seemed exaggerated.

For a while, they walked along in silence, each deep in his own thoughts, the naval officer gazing straight ahead of him, while Scherer's eyes were cast on the pavement.

"He must be an interesting fellow," murmured the major, amid the prevailing silence.

"Very," came deliberately from the commander.

They had reached the street which led to his quarters. He drew himself up, bade good-night, and went on his way.

Scherer and the major continued their stroll. They, too, had hardly had a word with one another. Since the night at the opera, the major had learned of Diana's connexion with the publisher, and had been waiting all the evening for the chance of a talk. They often did not meet for months at a time. Scherer, too, was eager to bring the conversation round to Diana. He wanted his own view of her confirmed by some one whose opinion he respected, and he knew by the major's bearing towards her the other evening, that the soldier was to be trusted. And yet he felt a certain misgiving, for he was a man of the world, and, with such, a lack of confidence in others' integrity is habitual.

"A man of sterling worth, that," said Scherer, nodding his head in the direction of their departing friend. He was inclined, when speaking of men he knew but slightly, to use vaguely pompous expressions of commendation.

"Very pleasant, indeed," replied the major. "Very pleasant, and unassuming. A delightful contrast to most men in his profession."

Scherer smiled.

"You army men always underestimate the navy."

"Pardon me, it's finance that overestimates the navy," corrected the major.

Scherer was delighted with the answer. It seemed to him courageous, penetrating, courteous, and, in addition, perfectly true.

"Would not you like to go away down there?"

"Yes, but how?"

"For instance, as military attaché?"

"Eckersberg is firm in the saddle!"

Scherer calculated that no more than a hundred paces or so remained of their way together. He therefore gave a turn to the conversation, saying:

"Those are certainly very interesting countries, but so few of our people know anything about them. I've a lady at my office, an extraordinarily intelligent woman, who really knows quite a lot."

"Ah," thought the major.

"As a matter of fact you know her, I fancy. Were you not in her company at the opera the other night?"

The major noticed how careful his companion was not to mention her name, and, following suit, he replied:

"Yes, that's right. We met after several years, and she told me she was working for you."

"You knew one another some time ago," said Scherer in so toneless a voice that it would seem he meant the words to hang suspended in the air.

The major thought: "It won't do her any harm if her employer knows that she had good connexions in the past...." Aloud he said:

"She was living at the time..."

"At the 'Bristol,'" put in the other calmly, apparently wishing to spare the major from giving too intimate details. Then suddenly changing his manner: "I hope you won't think me impertinent if I ask you whether in those days she was as extraordinarily gifted, as well-informed..."

The major felt a glow of sympathy for the speaker as these words fell upon the night air. Memories crowded upon him. He remembered the influence she had exercised over his career, and, crushing back the feeling of jealousy which involuntarily rose within him, he thought only of the use he could be in helping Diana forward in her new sphere of life.

"Well-informed? Gifted? Certainly—so far as I could learn during rides and at the parties where I met the young lady." Words failed him. "Yes—she is really the—the most amazing creature I have—I have ever met among women!"

Scherer felt warmly towards his companion, for the embarrassment with which the words were spoken betrayed everything that the speaker wanted to keep secret. The major must in his youth have been a man with a good deal of experience of women! Scherer's surmises were thus doubly confirmed. He was silent for a while. Then:

"Wasn't there a young man of the party, very like her in appearance?..."

"Her brother."

"Ah, I thought as much. Let's sec, what was his name?" The question was put very tentatively.

"I did not quite catch his name. I fancy he must be her stepbrother."

Scherer thought:

"He just says that in order to shield her. He is very much in love with her."

A few hours later, by the time he reached home, his mind was made up. The place was very quiet. He entered his study, a dignified apartment from whose four sides the books looked at him in solemn greeting. Works of art were few in number, and no woman's face smiled down on this man in early middle-age as he took a seat at the writing-table. Great undertakings, far exceeding in scope the newspaper he had inherited from his father, had been planned in this room. Financial schemes with political aims had been thought out between these walls. During the long summer nights, Scherer, thinker though he was, had given free rein to feeling. Never, however, had he permitted a woman's hand to tamper with his work, never had he asked a woman her advice. He had not even consulted his male friends if a difficulty arose. Today, for the first time, he was going to venture the hazard.

He looked up dates in his calendar. The day after tomorrow was free. He addressed an envelope to: "Fräulein Paula Linke, Kleins Hotel." But on the enclosed visiting card he wrote: "... requests the honour of Fräulein Diana de Wassilko's company to dinner on Wednesday at 8 p.m."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Andreas to Nikolai.

"... Can it really be only three weeks since we sat on the terrace together under the lampions overlooking the lake, and I longed to get away from the beloved island that I might be among the lights along the shore? Was it not many months ago that you conjured me to be faithful to my art, which I was in the mood to consign to hell-fire?

"Now I feel that you were right, and I also feel that some day truth will return to me. For, just as I had to overcome the despair I experienced when I was sixteen because my first poem when written down did not equal the one I had composed in my head, so today, a decade later, I hope to learn how to travel along new ways, how to appreciate pauses, before I stand on the heights from which I may bring my influence to bear upon reality, whence I may possibly even master and dominate reality.

"My new plans make me feel more estranged than ever from my homeland. Was Vienna as tedious a place to live in when I was a boy? Was it always as odd, as unaccommodating a town as it seems to me now? Or was I unaware of its peculiarities merely because I was in daily contact with it, though ignoring its mechanism? True, I lived in a world apart, a world of dreams.... Be all this as it may, I have been promised many things these days, have made an advance in one direction and another, have gained the patronage of a sometime minister, a man on the spot has no objection to—but—all the same—by and by—and so on!

"I have been advised by a person of ability not to start my career in the antechamber of the chief. 'There,' he said, 'you will be given ample time to study the fine frescoes on the ceiling, and to learn the difference between the rococo style of Fischer von Erlach and that of Master Hildebrandt—but you will not get any farther along your chosen road! Item: frequent society drawing-rooms, or, since this is the month of June, go to as many garden parties as possible.'

"I am again mixing with women, and I may have the delicate hand of some charming countess or other to thank for finding myself cutting a figure in farther Asian or South African diplomatic circles! But my experiences this spring have supersaturated me so far as women are concerned. I cannot help making comparisons, and all the while I feel I am behaving odiously to the other members of the fair sex.

"I have also lost the power of appreciating my fellow poets. Ever since my wish to throw myself into the life of the world became a reality, I have felt alienated from the world of our poets. Indeed, my inborn veneration for the older poets has been shaken.

"Nikolai! When my last hour comes, I do not wish to be faced with fifty volumes of my Works; I would have before my eyes the vision of fifty different countries, of treaties whereby I had helped to bring great nations into friendlier touch one with another, of wars I had had a share in initiating, of perils which had lured me to take the first steps towards an unknown foe, of alliances which had led to the annihilation of millions! Do not be impatient with me, Nikolai; I must be allowed to let my fancy roam while I am still young.

"I had a strange experience this morning.

"Othello and I were walking in the Belvedere Park. The clocks had just struck nine. A few nursemaids with perambulators and some old men were the only other strollers. I entered the left hand of the two walks which lead straight up to the palace. I had reached the top of the steps at the end when I saw a couple coming from the palace towards me. As in a dream I recognized the lady as Baroness F. She is a woman in the middle forties, the mother of several grown-up daughters. But the baroness was soon wiped out of the field of my vision, for the young man at her side (can you believe it?) was the image of Diana, indeed he was so like her that I fancied it must be she disguised as a boy: her very features, her slim figure, her own familiar way of tossing her head! He was laughing and was playing with his walking stick, which he tapped against his white flannel trousers.

"My heart stopped beating: for a moment I feared I was going to faint. But I soon pulled myself together. He had removed his hat in order to enjoy the cool morning air, and now I saw that his countenance was pale, white, almost deathlike in its pallor. Diana had never been like that. As he came nearer, his face was hidden from me, for he had caught sight of Othello and was absorbed in the dog to the total exclusion of the dog's master. At that moment, the baroness, who must have recognized me, stopped and turned towards the exit as if to show her companion the view of the cathedral, for she obviously did not want to be accosted by me at such an hour in the company of a young man. The youth, however, gave a cursory glance at the view, and then turned again to the dog who was snuffing in friendly fashion and—an extraordinary thing for Othello to allow—was apparently enjoying the stranger's caresses. Anxious to avoid giving offence to the baroness, I went quietly on my way, calling the dog to heel when I was at some distance. He came bounding after me.

"Later on, hidden by the breastwork of the terrace, I caught another glimpse of them down below. She was leaning against one of the sphinxes; her left hand was partially supporting her from behind and was pressed against the sphinx's chest, her right hand, the fingers spread, was slightly raised, and her eyes were fixed upon the young man at her side, with that longing expression one often sees in women who are past the prime. Again, from that distance, I was poignantly reminded of Diana. He was resting his weight on his left foot and was playing with his right knee—just Diana's pose!

"Diana once told me she had a handsome brother.

"O Nikolai Nikolaievich! Why did I not take the next train and follow her to Milan that morning?

"ANDREAS."

CHAPTER NINE

Scherer's manservant opened the door to Diana. His feelings were a mixture of expectancy and misgiving. For the first time these eight years past his master had invited a strange lady to visit him alone. His orders had been brief: Dinner for two, in the room giving on the garden; a lady is coming.

"A lady? Alone? He usually gives a name. Or he says a gentleman is coming."

Now, as he took her cloak and contemplated her reflection in the mirror, he thought:

"No, she's not from the theatre!"

He looked relieved, for he had read that the temptations likely to assail a millionaire invariably hail from the theatre.

Diana was wearing a summer dress of simple cut, pale mauve silk, full in the skirt, gathered rather high under the breast, and pinned at the throat with a huge green scarab. She had bought it yesterday with all that remained of her little capital, for she had not wished to appear in a low-cut gown. This evening every vestige of coquetry was to be eschewed. The woman in her may also have been influenced by the fact that Scherer had already seen her in the evening frock at the opera.

Traditional customs of remote ancestors must have been at work within her as, like a duchess, she paused on the threshold of the room waiting for her host to advance and kiss her hand in welcome. He did not fail to notice the gesture. Indeed, not one of her actions this evening escaped his observation. Though as a rule he was reserved where the fair sex was concerned, he allowed his knowledge of human nature free rein in respect of this strange woman, and accepted as natural what in truth was natural enough.

Yesterday he had handed in his invitation to the porter at her hotel, while she, at the very same moment, following the rule of his firm, was eating her lunch at the office. Paula Linke had not betrayed by one syllable that she knew anything of the matter in hand; but Diana de Wassilko had written a few words accepting the invitation. Both Scherer and Diana knew that the lady who signed this note with her true name, the guest he was to entertain tonight, was in a sense to be considered a different woman from the girl who worked in the publishing firm.

She advanced slowly into the room, apologizing for being a little late. They passed into the library. She looked round her for a while, then, as was customary with her, she walked swiftly over to the window. A walnut tree stood outside, its branches illuminated by the lights from within. Scherer stayed where he was, following her movements.

"Her hips are narrow, like a boy's. I wonder if she could ever bear children," he mused.

"That's a fine tree," said Diana. "It smells of resin already, and yet we are only at the beginning of June. Perhaps it's been trimmed recently?"

She spoke softly as if communing with herself. Was she tired?

"Yes, I had to have it trimmed on one side," he answered. "It was hampering the growth of its neighbour."

She turned round, and faced towards the room, her hands resting on the window sill behind.

"Was it difficult to protect it when the house was being built? It is very near the wall."

"Fairly difficult. We had to place a kind of cage round each limb and root so that the men might not damage them."

"Yes, yes, especially when digging the foundations."

"How practical she is," thought Scherer, who was always delighted when any one showed an interest in his house. "Why is it that in all these eight years not one of my women acquaintances (nor for that matter any of my men friends) has thought of asking such a simple question?"

"You had it built for you? A beautiful room, and, if I may say so, conceived in a patrician spirit."

"That was the spirit which underlay my wishes when it was designed."

"You have some fine books on the shelves."

"How can you tell from such a distance?"

"Their arrangement is dignified, they are well bound, and, from the backs, I can see that you have some rare editions. I gather from my survey that there are not many novels among your books."

"Don't you like novels?"

"Life is more interesting. But I am very fond of some novels."

"I'll wager that Balzac is one of your favourites!"

"How do you know?"

"Well, I have learned something about you, anyway."

She laughed, and took the proffered chair.

"Yes, my name!"

"Polish?"

"Ruthenian, and therefore anti-Polish. But my family does actually come from Poland."

"Were you born in Poland?" He smiled as he added: "Since you are so kind as to be communicative."

"No, I was born in Macedonia, near the Albanian frontier. Have you a map?"

"When you were describing the district to me recently you never let on that you were born there," he said dryly.

His tone put Diana on the alert. Her combative nature was aroused, as if she suspected a subtle attack. Raising her eyebrows, she replied:

"I was not asked about myself, Herr Scherer."

"Proud! Easily piqued," thought he. Then, aloud:

"You did not encourage personal questions. Forgive me if I have offended you. These past three weeks I have made every effort to avoid doing or saying anything that might annoy you. Surely you will not be angry with me for one indiscreet remark?"

The spontaneity of his words, and the frank way in which he stretched out his hand in reconciliation, were enough to make her recover her composure. That he did not kiss her hand was further to his credit; and when he drew her arm through his and escorted her into the dining-room she felt quite herself again.

The doors leading to the garden had been set wide, and the soft evening air pervaded the room. A little breeze played in the corners, and sported with the tablecloth, then it fell asleep for a while. Two or three large moths circled round the electric lamps which cast an amber light through their shades.

The wide table put a good distance between Scherer and his guest. Diana for a time sat silently watching the drunken antics of the moths, whose yearning for immolation seemed to be hindered by some higher power. Vaguely daring thoughts came to her.

Her host followed the direction of her gaze. He half guessed what was in her mind, and yet did not venture to intrude upon her meditations. He ate in silence. At last he tried to rouse her by asking:

"Are you worrying about those moths? They can't come to any harm."

"Oh, I know, the lights are enclosed."

Her voice came as it seemed to him from very far away, and he realized that she was thoroughly enjoying her own train of thought. He let a few minutes elapse, and then said very quietly:

"They are adventurers trying to reach an unsuitable goal!"

She looked up, and, after a momentary hesitation, said in a tone of voice that contrasted strangely with her previous tone, having as it were a tinge of mockery in it:

"Maybe they are nothing but unfortunate petites femmes seeking for excitement without running any risks!"

"Do you dislike women?"

"How can I—am I not myself a woman? I loved my mother. All the same, I have never had a woman friend."

"How do you account for that?"

Diana took the long-stemmed green glass which the manservant had filled for the fish course, tasted the wine, and then said:

"Wonderful! Bittersweet! It must be Deidesheimer. I know a cousin of that vintage."

"But it is robbing me of your answer."

"Not at all. Women seem to me to have much the same qualities as wines." Her speech had become livelier, and she spoke with the assurance of a young man. "Most of them are too sweet; some are too crude. The finest wines, Burgundies, I have only found among men."

"What about me?" Scherer was unusually vivacious, his mood almost merry. "What am I? When you are overhauling your cellar what label would you stick on to Scherer?"

Her lips opened, she raised her eyes, shook her head ever so lightly, and looked at him with youthful roguishness as she replied:

"Herr Scherer? Let me see ... perhaps Deidesheimer Kirchenstuck '93!"

They both laughed at the sally. The servant thought: "She is dangerous after all," as he reluctantly filled her glass.

By now the serious mood in which they had sat down to their meal had worn off. They conversed cheerfully about vintages, about travelling through Burgundy, Upper Hungary, Sicily. When at last they rose and made for the terrace, Diana laughingly observed:

"Is there anything better than wine in the world?"

"One thing."

She was dreadfully afraid he was going to say love and thereby spoil everything, and she was duly grateful when he added:

"Music."

Of a sudden she became acutely aware of the loneliness that surrounded this man. The vision of a grand piano drawn up near a window, which she had seen in passing, made her realize how he sought to relieve the solitude of his evenings.

"How boundless must be his dreams," thought Diana.

They sat under the lamp which diffused a gracious light over the terrace. She held her tiny coffee cup poised in mid-air, her whole figure standing out in relief against the trellis work. He was reminded of an English engraving, and told her so.

"I've lived over there," she said composedly. "My grandmother was an Englishwoman. Do you like England?"

"I have mixed feelings towards that country, feelings which vacillate between respect and mistrust. No, I can't say I am fond of it. I cannot help seeing in it the future enemy."

"In Europe?"

"I hope only in the East." He enlarged upon the theme of Anglo-German interests. "When you consider Aden, Bagdad, Gibraltar—— Karl, just bring the globe over here—"

The man set it down on the low table between them, and Scherer pointed to the places he had named, spinning the captive globe round for his guest to see, while he continued to expatiate upon his subject. Suddenly, noticing she had ceased to reply, he exclaimed:

"Are you listening?"

"I'm so sorry, do forgive me," said Diana. "The globe set my thoughts wandering. I cannot see it turning on its axis without getting excited. Think of it! A ball, hanging obliquely between two needles, and yet neither more nor less than the stage upon which we are destined to play our part." She looked up at him inquiringly: "Have you ever felt like that?"

He did not answer.

This beautiful, young, mysterious woman, who could become enraptured with the gyrating of a globe, who could see therein something which touched responsive springs in her own adventurous nature, this woman who had been true to herself through all the tests he had put her to and who had thus confirmed him in his estimate of her capabilities, all these things and, in addition, the vague promptings of an inner urge, combined to break down the barriers of Scherer's habitual reserve.

"Would you allow me, Fräulein Wassilko," he began very calmly. But he broke off, and continued to speak words which surprised even himself: "Will you let me call you just once by your beautiful name?"

She looked at him kindly, though with some astonishment. The mere fact of her leniency gave him back his poise, and he resumed in matter of fact tones:

"Listen, I have a proposal to make. Will you go down there, to the centre of my interests, where our railway is being built? Will you act as my eyes, discover if our relations to that power are on a firm foundation? Above all, will you find out if the ambassador is really as well posted in local affairs as his abilities would lead me to suppose? This is an important mission I am proposing to entrust you with. Take time to think the matter over before you either accept it or turn it down. The whole question of our railway construction, the policy of the paper, everything turns upon how you will interpret things down there. Maybe we shall be strong enough, instead of having to bow to the sceptical policy of the central administration, to work along the lines indicated by the ambassador. What this will mean in a European crisis... Well, think it over; don't hurry with your answer, but let me have it as soon as you possibly can."

"I can answer now," rejoined Diana promptly.

She had followed his appeal sentence by sentence as he hammered out his wishes with almost melodramatic earnestness. Her expression was imperious rather than submissive, and yet it was friendly. While he was speaking, she sat bolt upright, her two hands grasping the round arms of the basket chair.

"I can give you your answer at once. I have been watching you day by day gradually making up your mind to this request. Well, yes, I should like to take the job on, and I shall do my best, if you, or your side, will leave me free to follow my own bent in matters of detail."

Scherer rose to his feet, and strode towards her. But she stopped him with a gesture, saying:

"I am afraid you will be disappointed in the end. Your fancy has magnified my capacities!"

He did not offer to shake hands on the bargain, but protested:

"You will not disappoint me—Diana!"

He pronounced her name very deliberately, once only. It was as if some enthusiast had picked the unique flower of a Victoria regia on the night of its blossoming.

There was a long silence. He went back to his arm-chair and flung himself into it, drawing his pencil from his pocket as if he had notes to jot down. When at last he spoke, his tone was businesslike, much as if he were in his office.

"Here is what I suggest. You leave on the fifteenth of this month, a week from now, that is to say. I'll give you a cheque for twenty thousand marks, out of which you are to pay yourself a salary of three thousand marks a month. You are to charge your expenses extra. I'll give you introductions. You are to write your reports yourself, to me personally, but only when you consider it necessary. Every one will say you are travelling in my interests, but you are not to admit the fact under any circumstances. Give me your word—good—and promise me likewise that you will give no information to any one else. That's right! We'll draw up our contract together; I don't want my secretary to have a suspicion of this undertaking of ours. Agreed?"

"All right," she cried with alacrity as she jumped up and assumed a military attitude of attention.

He smiled as he accompanied her to the hall. On reaching the music room she suddenly stopped.

"What had I better say I am doing down there—officially?"

"Oh, studying—museums—anything you like."

"Excavations! That's the thing. Archæological studies. My father discovered some Phœnician glassware in the neighbourhood."

He noticed that her movements were slower, that her thoughts were elsewhere. At the house door he bade her farewell, and at last bent over her hand and kissed it.

"Good-bye," she murmured in a far-away voice as she got wearily into the carriage.

"She's not been successful after all," thought the manservant as he closed the door on her.

"She is thoroughly natural and yet a mystery," thought Scherer on his way back to his rooms.

He looked at the objects around him, things she had touched or had spoken about. On reaching the window he sniffed the resinous scent of the walnut tree. The moths were still fluttering round the lamps, the globe was on the little table. Her answers came back to him as he mused.

He had quite forgotten that he had entrusted a very unusual and delicate piece of business to a stranger. Everywhere he felt and saw the woman.

When undressing he thought of her boylike figure, and after getting into bed and switching off the light, he said to himself:

"Yes. With such a woman one might be tempted to risk the experiment."

Diana felt tired as she entered her little room. Her body needed rest and relaxation after the hours of tension. The globe had stimulated her imagination, and when Scherer laid bare his plans it seemed to her as if some one had flung wide all the doors of a vast hall filled with columns. Mirrors reflected the columns again and again, so that they appeared to be unending. Then, when he had spoken her name, she had thought: "Can it be that this man has never called a woman by some loving pet name?"

Her thoughts had already begun to stray while he was outlining his conditions. She had felt very tired, had longed to be allowed to go to sleep.

CHAPTER TEN

"Please meet me tonight six-thirty outside New Station. Mufti. Diana."

The major had already been informed that she no longer went to the office regularly, but had been seen at the leading tailor's and dressmaker's busy replenishing her wardrobe. He guessed that some fresh adventure was afoot, and was less surprised at her summons than he otherwise might have been. He accepted the windfall with grateful thanks. Thrusting the telegram into a drawer, he gave his orderly the following instructions:

"See that the place is immaculately clean and tidy. Everything must be dusted, including the tops of the cupboards, thoroughly. Fresh candles. Tea to be served. You are to go to bed at ten. Not to wake me early tomorrow morning; in fact, don't come to my room till I ring. I shall not want my mail brought in, not even if there's a wire. If any one calls, I'm not at home. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Here, take this. As soon as I'm off, get along to the florist over the way and buy some white carnations. Not red ones, or pink ones, or white roses, or wallflowers. White—Carnations. I want them arranged in those three vases, a third of the bunch in each, one on the bedside table. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

But his hopes were dashed as soon as he met her, and when she shook him in so comradely a fashion by the hand. He thought: "I'll give her champagne. They all of them succumb to its spell!"

He tried to persuade her to drive out in a car. She would not hear of it, insisting that they take a train.

"If we keep the car it will cost no end of money; I know you won't send it away, and I can't offer to share expenses. Besides, it's quicker by train, and in this wind any attempt at conversation will be impossible if we motor out."

"Have you so short a time to give me?"

"Till nine."

He knew her dislike of ceremonial and that she hated being cajoled into changing her mind. When she gave, she lavished her gifts with generous hand. So he merely said teasingly:

"You've obviously got some important conference at that hour."

"Well guessed!"

The train was full. They sat in opposite corners, silently appraising one another. He looked rather angular in his civilian suit, and his neck, which was unduly long, struck her as absurd, rising uncouthly above the linen collar. Still, she refrained from staring too pointedly at this flaw, for she knew how sensitive her friend was as to his appearance. Surely he used to be more tanned in the old days? Intellectual pursuits are always bad for the health! A white carnation in his buttonhole? Incurable sentimentalist....

The major took in her thin summer dress, and the mauve-coloured rose in her wide-brimmed, grey-green hat. When he thought he could do so unobserved, he allowed his fancy to roam over the sweets that lay beneath the folds of the frock. Memories crowded upon him, his senses were stirred, he thought of the possible return journey alone with her in a car. Yes, anything might happen. As they walked through the wood which led from the little wayside station to the restaurant, his brain was in a whirl of thoughts and desires.

A table had been reserved by her. They looked down on the unruffled waters of the lake. Not a sail was to be seen on the smooth expanse that gleamed all rosy in the evening light. Diana had ordered the menu, as had been her wont when they used to dine here; and the champagne they drank was of the old familiar brand. But he sought in vain to reawaken in her the mood of long ago by recalling past suppers in these self-same surroundings. Diana, who was looking again at a watery expanse after many weeks' starvation, could think of nothing but the lake and the boat she had run away from so recently. Very softly she began to tell her friend of the life she had led on the island, of swimming and climbing and fishing, of the swallows coming north. She was not in the least amorous this evening; indeed, so calm and collected was she that he too grew less disquieted for a time. After a while, however, his passion once more found expression in his eyes; he drew nearer, pressed his suit with ardour. She stopped him short, observing humorously:

"My dear, I no longer wear the white carnation!"

"You ought to! You must!"

"I have become another being."

"Oh, we must not let this lovely summer evening slip through our fingers. We could be so happy. You would not have wired to me if you had not been free...."

"I am leaving town in three hours from now."

He held his peace, trying to control his emotion, wincing with jealousy at the thoughts her announcement conjured up.

"You are going away?"

"Yes."

"May I ask where?"

"To the Balkans."

Like a flash came the conviction that she was travelling with Scherer, for his acquaintance with the man was too slight for him to know that such an intrigue was out of the question. With innuendo he asked:

"Wagon-lit, I wager!"

She laughed gaily as she penetrated his meaning.

"Yes, wagon-lit. Coupé séparé, for one. A conventual cell from which on arrival at my destination a nun will emerge. I shall bid a solemn farewell to sin as I quaff the last glass of this superb Cliquot!"

He could not help joining in her good humour.

"Why not bid your farewell in the arms of a captain of horse in mufti?"

"Because he has been raised to the rank of major and is a member of the general staff with weighty responsibilities on his shoulders. In addition, my train leaves at eleven."

"There's plenty of time till then. It's only eight," he exclaimed incautiously. He bit his lip in mortification, recognizing his blunder. But she chose to find his words amusing. She laughed, and rejoined with unexpected candour:

"You are forgetting the conference at nine o'clock!"

"Who is the lucky devil?"

"My brother."

The major's brows were raised ever so slightly. She instantly realized that something was amiss. With a complete change of manner, curt and cold, with masculine firmness, she demanded:

"What's up?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Please tell me. As my friend, I beg you to let me know ... Felix!"

Her tone was so earnest that he gave way.