Jean flashed an indignant glance after
her.
"She might have told me that he gave himself! Surely the
man counts for something! Anyhow, rank like his is not
smirched by poverty or trade. Bismarck himself brews
beer."
"Your temper is contradictory to-day," said Clara coldly.
"Did you know," she said presently, "that the princesses
will be at the Countess von Amte's to-morrow?"
"Then we shall meet them!" cried Jean. "Then something
will be settled."
Lucy locked the door of her chamber after her.
She found much comfort in the tiny bare room with its
white walls and blue stove, and the table where lay her
worn Bible and a picture of her old home. The room
seemed a warm home to her now. Above the wall she had
hung photographs of the great Madonnas, and lately she
had placed one of Frances Waldeaux among them. That was
the face on which she looked last at night. When Clara
had noticed it, Lucy had said, "I am as fond of the dear
lady as if she were my own mother."
She sat down before it now, and taking out her sewing
began to work, glancing up at it, half smiling as to
a friend who talked to her. She thought of Furst Hugo
boiling soap, with a gentle pity, and of Jean with hot
disdain. What had Jean to do with it? The prince was
her own lover, as her gloves were her own.
But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the
far sky line to the little girl; the real things were her
work and her Bible, and George's mother talking to her.
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