The Argosy — page 70: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Oleander. 55 Lane resounded all day long to the echo of happy voices and gay laughter. Di’s feet were never weary, her spirits never flagged, her enjoyment never faltered. She sang, she danced, she flirted, she rode, she drove ; and her aunt, good-natured old Lady Paragon, was heard to declare, that not all her own bevy of wild Irish girls had caused her one half the amusement, excitement and fatigue that the chaperon- age of beautiful Lady Diana entailed upon her. On this particular morning Diana was discussing, not too amiably, the counter attractions of a very grand dinner versus a merry drive to Richmond, a row on the river, and an impromptu dance and supper at her own home, on their return. Lady Paragon was all in favour of the dinner, naturally, being old and a trifle stout, with a soul not above truffles, forced strawberries, and hot-house peaches, interspiced by the latest risqué on-dit and most piquant scandal. But Diana and Millicent Denman would hear of nothing so respectable and dull, and to this effect Di’s young voice was raised in rather loud tones. ‘It’s perfectly horrid,” she was saying to the long-suffering Dowager. “IT never heard, or read, or dreamed of such barbarity ! To want to goto old Lord Potmore’s on such a night as this, and stuff oneself with baked meats until one is as red and as cross as twenty Potmores rolled into one !” “My dear Diana,” expostulated her ladyship, ‘‘ you really should be careful! You make such random statements, my love! Iam posi- tively certain that Lord Potmore’s cook knows quite well that to serve baked meats is not at all the thing; and as to my growing red and cross—my dear Diana, my complexion and temper are my two strong points.” “* Now you know you want to go, Aunt Parry,” cried Diana shortly, “because the Reigne-bisque is particularly good at Potmore House. I have heard you say so thousands of times. Now I detest Reigne- bisque, and I know I shall be as cross and as ugly as Theresa, who sits moping there, if you make me go; and when I do look ugly, you know there is no one can touch me.” “Oh, Diana,” said Lady Paragon plaintively, ‘‘ what can I do? We have been promised, you know, for a fortnight—and then there is Welford. Your brother will never forgive me, for you know quite well who is to be there, especially to meet you.” “If you mean Horace Browne,” cried Di, with flashing eyes, em- phasizing each syllable of his name scornfully, ‘then I can tell you, Aunt Paragon, I simply won't go. Welford ought to be ashamed to treat me so. I hate Horace Browne. He’s disagreeable and deceit- ful, and if Welford thinks to make me listen to him by threats or by promises, he is very much mistaken. He can keep my money from me, I know, but he cannot, and he shall not, make me marry a man I despise.” Diana burst into tears, and sobbed so piteously and so long that it EONNIE OOO KS (E() m