e flower and then on
another, but always on flowers, never on weeds; gathering such honey as
suited her taste; never resting where she might by any chance be
compelled to use her feet, but always poised in air; a woman, rich,
brilliant, and beautiful, and--here was the key-note of her
life--always, year in and year out, warmed by somebody's admiration,
whose she didn't much mind nor care, so that it gratified her pride and
relieved her of ennui. The other--and this one he loved with his whole
soul--a woman of forty-six, with a profound belief in her creeds;
quixotic sometimes in her standards, but always sincere; devoted to her
traditions, to her friends and to her duty; unselfish, tender-hearted,
and self-sacrificing; whose feet, though often tired and bleeding, had
always trodden the earth.

As Lucy greeted first one neighbor and then another, sometimes with one
hand, sometimes with two, offering her cheek now and then to some old
friend who had known her as a child, Jane's heart swelled with
something of the pride she used to have when Lucy was a girl. Her
beautiful sister, she saw, had lost none of the graciousness of her old
manner, nor of her tact in making her guests feel perfectly at home.
Jane noticed, too--and this was new to her--a certain well-bred
condescension, so delicately managed as never to be offensive--more the
air of a woman accustomed to many sorts and conditions of men and
women, and who chose to be agreeable as much to please herself as to
please her guests.

And yet with all this poise of manner and condescending graciousness,
there would now and then dart from Lucy's eyes a quick, searching
glance of inquiry, as she tried to read her guests' thoughts, followed
by a relieved look on her own face as she satisfied herself that no
whisper of her past had ever reached them. These glances Jane never
caught.

Doctor John was most cordial in his greeting and talked to her a long
time about some portions of Europe, particularly a certain cafe in
Dresden where he used to dine, and another in Paris frequented by the
beau monde. She answered him quite frankly, telling him of some of her
own experiences in both places, quite forgetting that she was giving
him glimpses of her own life while away--glimpses which she had kept
carefully concealed from Jane or Martha. She was conscious, however,
after he had left her of a certain uncomfortable feeling quivering
through her as his clear, steadfast eyes looked