True beauty in a woman is something far deeper, far less tangible than
mere perfection of feature. One grows unutterably weary of the Venus
de Milo type of face, with its expressionless perfection. And yet, so
careless is nature that not twice in a lifetime does one see a woman's
face in which are combined fineness of intelligence and of character,
and beauty of feature. But Diana was the thrice fortunate possessor of
this combination. She was so lovely that one's heart ached while it
exulted in looking at her. For it seemed a tragic thing that beauty so
deep and so rare should embody itself in a form so ephemeral as the
human body.
She was very slender. She was very erect. Her small head with the
masses of light brown hair shining beneath the simple hat, was held
proudly. Yet there was a matchless simplicity and lack of
self-consciousness about Diana that impressed even the careless
observer: if there was a careless observer of Diana!
Enoch stood beside his desk in his usual dignified calm. His keen eyes
swept Diana from head to foot.
"You are kind to see me so quickly, Mr. Secretary," said Diana, holding
out her hand.
Enoch smiled, but only slightly. It seemed to Diana that she never had
seen so young a man with so stern a face.
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