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such jams with the traffic,” Lionel was saying. “I saw a fellow walk along the tops of the cabs in Berkeley Street. Quite a circus turn…. And then the day of the procession itself—”
    â€œAh those Indian princes,” said Mrs. Kingswood. “Their coats … the
diamonds …”
    Lionel turned to Lily. “Diamonds indeed. Diamonds galore. My brother here is the owner of a remarkable piece of jewelry. A family possession since the sixties….” He bent nearer. “You’ve heard of a rain of diamonds? Well, this is a
waterfall
of them. A style favored by Empress Eugénie and very fashionable at the time. The diamonds are articulated, you see, and move with the wearer…. It’s a necklace so lavish it is almost a corsage. We call it simply The Diamond Waterfall.’ … It is very spectacular.”
    Lily made no comment. He went on:
    â€œNaturally these past few years it hasn’t been worn. My late sister-in-law, of course. … It is a piece too that wears the woman, not the other way about.” He spoke in a confidential tone, his voice low.
    Miss Bateman, who had nevertheless been listening, said, “I should
adore
to see—”
    Sir Robert, who had heard too, leaning forward, said gallantly, “You shall, my dear, you shall.” He turned to Lily:
    â€œAnd you, Miss Greene—would it interest you?”
    She had hardly been listening. “Oh, I scarcely think so,” she said carelessly. “I am not much set on jewelry, you know….” (Although I have, have I not, a sapphire bracelet from Edmund? I broke all the rules for that. Never to accept …)
    â€œOh come now,” Lionel said. “That doesn’t sound like our Miss Greene …” He persisted, saying to all the table, “It is a beautiful sight. On or off. No mere rain of diamonds. A waterfall—”
    â€œYes, indeed, yes.” She caught his brother’s eye. Sir Robert stared at her. To show she had meant nothing by her remarks, she smiled.
    At that moment the Hungarian band launched into a selection from
Dorothy.
First a light, prancing number. Then a quieter, more romantic one. Sir Robert—she saw that he watched her still—said:
    â€œYou know it—what show this is from?”
    â€œYes, yes, I know it.” She thought again, He is a widower and that is pitiful.
“Dorothy.
Frank Cellier. Always popular. It wasn’t new, even ten years ago.”
    Pity. I don’t care for pity. Once, it was nearly my undoing…. She felt that she could not bear it—this rush of memory, emotion.
    Sir Robert was insisting, though, “This song—what is it called?”
    â€œ ‘Queen of My Heart,’ ” she said promptly. “It is called ‘Queen of My Heart.’”

2
    I had to be hard in those days, she thought. Yet hearing the song now, she was reminded only of pity, and the irony of that pity. I concerned myself with the wrong person, she thought. A foolish heart (mine) betrayed me, blinding me to what I should have seen.
    Two memories, the song brings back, one shameful, the other of a sadness I can hardly bear now to remember.
    Escaped! That first terrifying, wonderful day, ten years ago now yet seeming so much more. I was both afraid and happy—afraid they would come after me, that Harry would be punished on my account; that worse might befall Daisy and I not there to help.
    Sitting there in the London-bound train (I had thought it would never come into the station, that the whistle would
never
blow), I saw myself in a play, a melodrama perhaps—I felt I had Runaway Daughter written all over me.
    At Kings Cross station it was raining, summer rain. I hailed a porter and then a cab, assuming a confidence I did not feel. (I knew nothing of London. Might not my pocket be picked, my person assaulted?) Deep in my hamper was the little notebook with its precious list of