Peter, in his basket, slept soundly all night. But Sophie slept not at all. And early in the morning she went down to her friend. Diana had taken the room which had been her mother's. She had kept the carved canopy bed and other massive pieces, but she had changed the hangings and the wall covering from mauve to rose-color. "You see, Sophie," she had explained one day in Berlin, "there comes a time in the life of every woman when she needs rose-color to counteract the gray of her existence. If you put blue with gray you get gray. But if you put pink with gray you get rose-color. Perhaps you didn't know that before, Sophie, but now you do. And you'll know also that when I dare wear a blue gown I am feeling positively infantile." Diana, in neglige, had always made Mrs. Martens think of a rose in bloom. She had a fashion of swathing her head, cap-fashion, in wide pink ribbon, and her crepe kimonos always reflected the same enchanting hue. But this morning it was a white rose which lay back on the pillows. Diana's loose brown braids hung straight down on each side of her pale face. There were shadows under her eyes. "Don't look at me that way, Sophie," she said, sharply, as Mrs. Martens came up to the bed. "I--I'm not going into a decline--or break my heart--or----" She broke off and said in a changed voice, "You're a dear." Then with a pitiful little laugh, "It wouldn't be so hard--but she's so young, Sophie." "Eighteen--poor Anthony!" "Do you think he is really unhappy, Sophie?" 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. And at last he had asked, "Why didn't you marry that fellow in Berlin, Di?"