A sense of the sharp contrast between them smote Diana almost painfully—she herself, young and radiant, holding in her slender throat a key that would unlock the doors of the whole world, and beside her the little boarding-house help, equally young, and with all youth's big demands pent up within her, yet ahead of her only a drab vista of other boarding-houses—some better, some worse, mayhap—but always eating the bread of servitude, her only possible way of escape by means of matrimony with some little underpaid clerk.
And what had Bunty done to deserve so poor a lot? Hers was unquestionably by far the finer character of the two, as Diana frankly admitted to herself. In truth, the apparent injustices of fate made a riddle hard to read.
"And you,"—Diana spoke impulsively—"you are the dearest thing imaginable. I wish you were coming with me."
"I should like to hear you sing in those big rooms," acknowledged
Bunty, a little wistfully.
"When I give my recital you shall have a seat in the front row," Diana promised, as she picked up her gloves and music-case.
A tap sounded at the door.
"Are you ready?" inquired Olga Lermontof a voice from outside.
Bunty opened the door.
"Oh, come in, Miss Lermontof. Yes, Miss Quentin is quite ready, and I must run away now."
Olga came in and stood for a moment looking at Diana. Then she deliberately stepped close to her, so that their reflections showed side by side in the big mirror.