It's the connections in every direction that make one dwell on her obituary:  her East End grandfather, Barney Barnato (ne Barney Isaacs), an associate of Cecil Rhodes who mixed Mile End and Mafeking, Petticoat Lane and Pretoria, king  of the Kimberly diamonds, but also evoking memories of the ostrich-feather craze that relied on struthionic farming in South Africa and connects to pre-World War I  high fashion, which in turn links, in many minds, to the cafe society in London of the 1930s and 1940s (and now it may be time for a  little musical interlude, with Al Bowlly and the Ambrose Orchestra, or Ray Fox, or Harry Roy, or Jack Hylton, or Al Starita, or some other group, possibly at the Kit Kat Club), and while her father Woolf raced cars, she, during the war, put off childish things but high-spirited and brave but now usefully so, became a daredevil deliverer of Spitfires, herself a spitfire, then affianced in turn not to one but to two RAF fighter aces, and then, because both of those aces died in plane crashes,  ended in a contented 30-year liaison with an American, Whitney Straight, both a sometime racing-car driver and another heroic pilot of World War II, of the Whitney and Straight families, which included, connoisseurs of these things will remember,  Michael Straight, owner at one time of "The New Republic" who turned out, some will recall, to be far more than merely a salon Bolshevik. Michael's  daughter Dorothy was the youngest published author on record; I never read what she produced as a six-year-old but did see the written work she did for her most memorable college course, and it was very good.

Here's the obituary, in case you missed it, or in case you want to read it again:  

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/1927116/Diana-Barnato-Walker.html