Lucy seized the glass and drank the wine eagerly.

“It must be a nervous strain,” said Rose, “to stand up there, before such a crowded audience as there was this morning, and sing.”

“Yes, it is,” agreed Mrs. Ayres, in a harsh voice, “and especially when anybody isn’t used to it.  Lucy is not at all strong.”

“I hope it won’t be too much for her,” said Rose; “but it is such a delight to listen to her after—­”

“Oh, I am tired and sick of hearing Miss Hart’s name!” cried Lucy, unpleasantly.

“Lucy!” said Mrs. Ayres.

“Well, I am,” said Lucy, defiantly.  “It has been nothing but Miss Hart, Miss Hart, from morning until night lately.  Nobody thinks she poisoned Miss Farrel, of course.  It was perfect nonsense to accuse her of it, and when that is said, I think myself that is enough.  I see no need of this eternal harping upon it.  I have heard nothing except ‘poor Miss Hart’ until I am nearly wild.  Come, Rose, I’ll get dressed and we’ll go out in the arbor.  It is too pleasant to stay in-doors.  This room is awfully close.”

“I think perhaps I had better not stay,” Rose replied, doubtfully.  It seemed to her that she was having a very strange call, and she began to be indignant as well as astonished.

“Of course you are going to stay,” Lucy said, and her voice was sweet again.  “We’ll let Miss Hart alone and I’ll get dressed, and we’ll go in the arbor.  It is lovely out there to-day.”

With that Lucy sprang from the bed and let her wrapper slip from her shoulders.  She stood before her old-fashioned black-walnut bureau and began brushing her hair.  Her white arms and shoulders gleamed through it as she brushed with what seemed a cruel violence.

Rose laughed in a forced way.  “Why, dear, you brush your hair as if it had offended you,” she said.

“Don’t brush so hard, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ayres.

“I just hate my old hair, anyway,” said Lucy, with a vicious stroke of the brush.  She bent her head over, and swept the whole dark mass downward until it concealed her face and nearly touched her knees.  Then she gave it a deft twist, righted herself, and pinned the coil in place.

“How beautifully you do up your hair,” said Rose.

Lucy cast an appreciative glance at herself in the glass.  The wine had deepened the glow on her cheeks.  Her eyes were more brilliant.  She pulled her hair a little over one temple, and looked at herself with entire satisfaction.  Lucy had beautiful neck and arms, unexpectedly plump for a girl so apparently slender.  Her skin was full of rosy color, too.  She gazed at the superb curve of her shoulders rising above the dainty lace of her corset-cover, and smiled undisguisedly.

“I wish my neck was as plump as yours,” said Rose.

“Yes, she has a nice, plump neck,” said Mrs. Ayres.  While the words showed maternal pride, the tone never relaxed from its nervous anxiety.