This is the tale of Diana, the Gipsy, the Goddess, the Woman, one inall and all in one and that one so wonderful, so elusive, so utterlyfeminine that I, being but a man and no great student in the Sex, may,in striving to set her before you in cold words, distort this dearimage out of all semblance and true proportion.
Here and now I would begin this book by telling of Diana as I rememberher, a young dryad vivid with life, treading the leafy ways, grey eyesa-dream, kissed by sun and wind, filling the woodland with the gloryof her singing, out-carolling the birds.
I would fain show her to you in her swift angers and ineffabletenderness, in her lofty pride and sweet humility, passionate withlife yet boldly virginal, fronting evil scornful and undismayed, witheyes glittering bright as her "little _churi_" yet yieldingherself a willing sacrifice and meekly enduring for Friendship's sake.
With her should this book properly commence; but because I doubt mypen (more especially at this so early stage) I will begin not withDiana but with my aunt Julia, my uncle Jervas, my uncle George and mypainfully conscious self, trusting that, as this narrative progresses,my halting pen may grow more assured and my lack of art be atoned forby sincerity. For if any writer or historian were sincere then mosttruly that am I.
Therefore I set forth upon this relation humbly aware of my failings,yet trusting those who read will not fall asleep over my firstineffectual chapter nor throw the book aside after my second, but withkind and tolerant patience will bear with me and read bravely onuntil, being more at my ease, I venture to tell of Diana's wonderfulself.
And when they shall come to the final chapter of this history (if theyever do) may they be merciful in their judgment of their humbleauthor, that is to say this same poor, ineffectual, unheroical personwho now subscribes himself