Diana had inherited three hundred a year of her own, and the sum she contributed to "cover the cost of her upkeep," as she laughingly termed it when she was old enough to understand financial matters, was a very welcome addition to the slender resources provided by the value of the living.
But even had the circumstances been quite other than they were, so that the fulfilment of Ralph Quentin's last behest, instead of being an assistance to the household exchequer, had proved to be a drain upon it, Alan Stair would have acted in precisely the same way--for the simple reason that there was never any limit to his large conception of the meaning of the word friendship and of its liabilities.
Diana had speedily carved for herself a niche of her own in the Rectory household, so that when the exigencies of her musical training, as viewed through Carlo Baroni's eyes, had necessitated her departure from Crailing for a whole year, Stair and his daughter had felt her absence keenly, and they welcomed her back with open arms.
The account of the railway accident which had attended her homeward journey had filled them with anxiety lest she should suffer from the effects of shock, and they had insisted that she should breakfast in bed this first morning of her arrival, inclining to treat her rather as though she were a semi-invalid.
"Have you been to see Diana ?" asked Stair anxiously, as his daughter joined him in the dining-room.
She shook her head.
"No need.

Diana's been in to see me! There's no breakfast in bed about her; she'll be down directly.

Even her arm doesn't pain her much." Stair laughed.
"What a girl it is!" he exclaimed.

"One would have expected her to feel a bit shaken up after her experience yesterday." "I fancy something else must have happened beside the railway accident," observed Joan wisely.

"Something interesting enough to have outweighed the shock of the smash-up.