She had only known that she felt restless and discontented when Max was out of her sight, irritated at the amount of his time which Miss de Gervais claimed, and she had ascribed these things to the depth of her love for him! But now, with a sudden flash of insight, engendered by the Russian's dexterous suggestion, she realised that it was jealousy, sheer primitive jealousy of another woman that had gripped her, and her young, wholesome, spontaneous nature recoiled in horrified self-contempt at the realisation.
Pobs' good counsel came back to her mind: "It seems to me that if you love him, you needs _must_ trust him." Ah! but that was uttered in regard to another matter--the secret which shadowed Max's life--and she _had_ trusted him over that, she told herself.

This, this jealousy of another woman, was an altogether different thing, something which had crept insidiously into her heart, and woven its toils about her almost before she was aware of it.
And behind it all there loomed a new terror.

Olga Lermontof's advice: "_Ask him who he is_," beat at the back of her brain, fraught with fresh mystery, the forerunner of a whole host of new suspicions.
Secrecy and concealment of any kind were utterly alien to Diana's nature.

Impulsive, warm-hearted, quick-tempered, she was the last woman in the world to have been thrust by an unkind fate into an atmosphere of intrigue and mystery.

She was like a pretty, fluttering, summer moth, caught in the gossamer web of a spider--terrified, struggling, battling against something she did not understand, and utterly without the patience and strong determination requisite to free herself.
For hours after Olga's departure she fought down the temptation to follow her advice and question her husband.