"Don't look so aghast, dear Miss Vance," said Lucy
cheerfully. "Go now and dress to meet the Herrschaft."
"And what will you do, child?"
"I really must finish these pinks to-night." She took up
her work. Her chin trembled a little. "We won't speak
of this again, please," she said. "I never shall be a
bride or a wife or mother. I will have a quiet,
independent life--like yours."
The sunshine fell on the girl's grave, uplifted face, on
the white walls, the blue stove, and the calm, watching
Madonnas. Clara, as Mrs. Waldeaux had done, thought of
a nun in her cell to whom love could only be a sacred
dream.
She smiled back at Lucy, bade her goodnight, and closed
the door.
"Like mine?" she said, as she went down the corridor.
"Well, it is a comfortable, quiet life. But empty----"
And she laid her hand suddenly across her thin breast.
Jean listened in silence when Clara told her briefly that
Lucy was not going.
"She is very shrewd," she said presently. "She means to
treat them de haut en bas from the outset. It is
capital policy."
Jean, when she entered the countess's salon, with
downcast eyes, draped in filmy lace without a jewel or
flower, was shy innocence in person. Furst Hugo stood
near the hostess, with two stout women in shabby gowns
and magnificent jewels.
"The frocks they made themselves, and the emeralds are
heirlooms," Jean muttered to Clara, without lifting her
timid eyes.
"Miss Dunbar is not coming?" exclaimed the prince.
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