The night before when she had lain in Mrs. Martens' comforting arms, she had thought only of her own misery. For a time she had been just a little sobbing child to be consoled. All her poise, all her self-restraint had gone down under the force of the overwhelming shock.
But now a wild hope sprang up in her breast. Why should two people suffer for the sake of one? And the other girl was so young—she would get over it.
Yet, remembering Anthony's face as he had left her, she had little hope.
"I wish you might have been prepared for this," he had said. "I wrote a letter, but it must have missed you. Perhaps it has been best to talk it out—that's why I came. May I still come, sometimes, Diana?"
Then her pride had risen to meet the crisis.
"As if anything could spoil our friendship, Anthony," she had told him bravely. "I want you to come—and some day you must bring—the Girl."
"You will like her," he had said, eagerly, with a man's blundering confidence, "and you can help her. She is very lonely, Diana—and I was lonely——"
That had been the one shred of apology which he had vouchsafed for the act which had spoiled their lives.
When he had first entered the moonlighted room, she had turned from the piano and had held out her hands to him.
He had taken them, and had stood looking down at her, with eyes which spoke what his lips would not say.