“Fanny, do you know?” she whispered.
Fanny’s eyes sank involuntarily to the hand on her knee, and rested on the new wedding-ring. Diane saw the glance, and drew her hand back with a significant gesture of pain and repugnance.
“Do I know what?” Fanny flushed with embarrassment. “You mean that you’ve—you’ve left him, Di, or—or what he did?”
Diane, busily covering her left hand with its glove, was aware that her fingers were shaking.
“I mean both,” she replied.
“Yes, papa told us. Oh, Diane, I’m so sorry—so sorry about him!”
“You mean you’re more sorry for him than for me?”
Fanny raised her blue eyes steadily.
“Yes, I think I am. He’s lost everything, even himself!”
Diane rose to her feet and began to walk about the room. It was small and bright, with two windows looking out on the campus. It contained a book-shelf, some pretty chintz-covered furniture, and a little white bed that looked like a convent cot. There were also unnumbered girlish belongings—favors, bonbon-boxes, photographs, and knickknacks.