On Monday Jean went to spend the day with some of her
artist friends, but at noon she dashed into the room
where Clara and Lucy sat sewing, her dark face blotched
red, and her voice stuttering with excitement.
"I have seen into the cave!" she shouted. I have got at
the truth! It's a rather stagy throne, the Wolfburghs!
Plated, cheap!"
"What is the matter with you?" said Miss Vance.
"Nothing is the matter with ME. It is Lucy's tragedy.
I've seen the magnificent ancient palace of the
Wolfburghs. It is a flat! In the very house where
I went to-day. The third story flat just under the
attics where the poor Joneses daub portraits. I passed
the open doors and I saw the shabby old tables and chairs
and the princesses--two fat old women in frowzy wrappers,
and their hair in papers, eating that soup of pork and
cabbages and raisins--the air was thick with the smell!
And that is not the worst!"
"Take breath, Jean," said Lucy calmly.
"The prince himself--the Joneses told me, there can be no
doubt--the prince makes soap for a living! No wonder you
turn pale, Miss Vance. Soap! He is the silent partner
in the firm of Woertz und Zimmer, and it is not a paying
business either."
Jean did not wait for an answer, but walked up and down
the room, laughing angrily to herself. "Yes, soap! He
cannot sneer at Lucy's ancestral saddles, now. Nor my
father's saws! His rank is the only thing he has to give
for Lucy's millions, and now she knows what it is worth!"
Lucy rose and, picking up her work basket, walked quietly
out of the room.
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