poised between the
thumb and forefinger of her right hand, it was hard to connect her with
tragic possibilities. There were pearls around her neck and diamonds in
her hair; but to the wholesomeness of her personality jewels were no
more than dew on the freshness of a summer morning.

"I thought you'd be surprised to find me sitting up," Mrs. Eveleth began
again; "but the truth is, I couldn't go to bed while--"

"I'm glad you didn't," Diane broke in, with an evident intention to keep
the conversation in her own hands. "I'm not in the least sleepy. I could
sit here and talk till morning--though I suppose it's morning now.
Really the time to live is between midnight and six o'clock. One has a
whole set of emotions then that never come into play during the other
eighteen hours of the day. They say it's the minute when the soul comes
nearest to parting with the body, so I suppose that's the reason we can
see things, during the wee sma' hours, by the light of the invisible
spheres."

"I should be quite content with the light of this world--"

"Oh, I shouldn't," Diane broke in, with renewed eagerness to talk
against time. "It's like being content with words, and having no need of
music. It's like being satisfied with photographs, and never wanting
real pictures."

"Diane," Mrs. Eveleth interrupted, "I insist that you let me speak."

"Speak, petite mere? What are you doing but speaking now? I'm scarcely
saying a word. I'm too tired to talk. If you'd spent the last eight or
ten hours trying to get yourself down to the conversational level of
your partners, you'd know what I've been through. We women must be made
of steel to stand it. If you had only seen me this evening--"

"Listen to me, Diane; don't joke. This is no time for that."

"Joke! I never felt less like joking in my life, and--"

She broke off with a little hysterical gasp, so that Mrs. Eveleth got
another chance.

"I know you don't feel like joking, and still less do I. There's
something wrong."

"Is there? What?" Diane made an effort to recover herself. "I hope it
isn't indiscreet to ask, because I need the bracing effect of a little
scandal."

"Isn't it for you to tell me? You're concealing something of which--"

"Oh, petite mere, is that quite honest? First, you say there's something
wrong; and then, when I'm all agog to hear it, you saddle me with the
secret. That's what you call in English a sell, isn't it? A sell! What a
funny little word! I oft