All the way down in the train Diana kept saying to her friend, "I am so glad you are going to see my house, Sophie. You can't imagine how lovely it is." But even then Mrs. Martens was not prepared. She was given a room on the third floor from which glass doors opened on a little balcony which overhung the harbor. It was like the upper deck of a ship with the open sea to the right and left, and with a strip of green peninsula cutting into it beyond the causeway. "That's the Neck," Diana explained; "the yacht clubs are over there and some hotels and big houses. But I like it on this side, in the town. It's so quaint and lovely. I'll show you some of it to-morrow morning." "I'm not going anywhere to-morrow morning. I am going to sleep until noon." Diana bent and kissed her. "Poor thing, is she tired?" "Dead." "Well, I won't wake you. But I am going to be up with the dawn, Sophie." Mrs. Martens turned and looked at her. "Is Anthony here?" "Yes." Diana caught her breath as she said it, and the two friends stood, silently, looking over the harbor. The twilight was taking the blue out of the water, but the beauty was still there--with the lights on the anchored boats twinkling like stars in the grayness, and the lighthouse making a great moon above them. "When will you see him, Diana?" "To-night." "Then I'm going to bed." "You're not--I want you to meet him, Sophie." "You want him every bit for yourself. Don't be a hypocrite, Diana." Diana laid her hands on Sophie's shoulders and shook her a little, laughing. "Sophie, do you ever feel so young that you are almost wild with it--as if there hadn't been any years since you wore pinafores and pigtails?" "No--I'm thirty-five, Diana." "Don't shout it from the housetops. I'm a very few years behind. What a lot of wasted years, Sophie." "It's your own fault, Diana." "But I wanted to be free----" "And now you are longing for your prison----" "With Anthony--yes." "You'd better go down and dress, dear. Put on that pale blue, with your pearls, Diana. It fits in with the moonlight." "Then you won't come down?" "No. I'll have Peter for company." Peter Pan was Diana's cat. He was as yellow as a harvest moon, he was fed on fish, and was of a prodigious fatness. During Diana's sojourn abroad he had been looked after by Delia Hobbs. Delia was Diana's housekeeper. She had a lame hip and a lovely mind. She went up to Mrs. Martens' room after Diana had left to see if the little lady was comfortable for the night. She eyed Peter Pan, who was in the middle of the big bed. "Peter," she said, severely, "that's no place for you." Peter rolled over, and clawed the lace spread luxuriously. "Shall I take him off, ma'am?" Delia asked. "It's nice to have him here," said Mrs. Martens, doubtfully, "but perhaps I ought not to let him stay. You know best, Delia."