Diana leaned far out of the open window of her room at Brutton Square,
sniffing up the air with its veiled, faint fragrance of spring, and
gazing down in satisfaction at the delicate shimmer of green which
clothed the trees and shrubs in the square below.
The realisation that a year had slipped away since last the trees had
worn that tender green amazed her; it seemed almost incredible that
twelve whole months had gone by since the day when she had first come
to Brutton Square, and she and Bunty had joked together about the ten
commandments on the wall.
The year had brought both pleasure and pain--as most years do--pleasure
in the friends she had gathered round her, Adrienne and Jerry and
Bunty--even with Olga Lermontof an odd, rather one-sided friendship had
sprung up, born of the circumstances which had knit their paths
together--pain in the soreness which still lingered from the hurt that
Errington had dealt her. Albeit, her life had been so filled with work
and play, her mind so much occupied, that a surface skin, as it were,
had formed over the wound, and it was only now and again that a sudden
throb reminded her of its existence. Love had brushed her with his
wings in passing, but she was hardly yet a fully awakened woman.
Nevertheless, the brief episodes of her early acquaintance with
Errington had cut deep into a mind which had hitherto reflected nothing
beyond the simple happenings of a girlhood passed at a country rectory,
and the romantic flair of youth had given their memory a certain sacred
niche in her heart.
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