The various cosmetics and their uses were especial objects of comment.

“Did ye break one of the bottles, darlin’?” she asked, sniffing at a peculiar perfume which seemed to permeate everything.  “Some of ’em must have smashed; it’s awful strong everywhere—­smell that” —­and she held out a bit of lace which she had taken from the case, a dressing-sacque that Lucy had used on the steamer.

Lucy laughed.  “And you don’t like it?  How funny, you dear old thing!  That was made specially for me; no one else in Paris has a drop.”

And then the dresses!  Particularly the one she was to wear the first night—­a dress flounced and furbelowed and of a creamy white (she still wore mourning—­delicate purples shading to white—­the exact tone for a husband six months dead).  And the filmy dressing-gowns, and, more wonderful than all, the puff of smoke she was to sleep in, held together by a band of violet ribbon; to say nothing of the dainty slippers bound about with swan’s-down, and the marvellous hats, endless silk stockings of mauve, white, and black, and long and short gloves.  In all her life Martha had never seen or heard of such things.  The room was filled with them and the two big closets crammed to overflowing, and yet a dozen trunks were not yet unpacked, including the two small boxes holding little Ellen’s clothes.

The night was one long to be remembered.  Everyone said the Manor House had not been so gay for years.  And they were all there—­all her old friends and many of Jane’s new ones, who for years had looked on Lucy as one too far above them in station to be spoken of except with bated breath.

The intimates of the house came early.  Doctor John first, with his grave manner and low voice—­ so perfectly dressed and quiet:  Lucy thought she had never seen his equal in bearing and demeanor, nor one so distinguished-looking—­not in any circle in Europe; and Uncle Ephraim, grown fat and gouty, leaning on a cane, but still hearty and wholesome, and overjoyed to see her; and Pastor Dellenbaugh—­ his hair was snow-white now—­and his complacent and unruffled wife; and the others, including Captain Holt, who came in late.  It was almost a repetition of that other home-coming years before, when they had gathered to greet her, then a happy, joyous girl just out of school.

Lucy in their honor wore the dress that had so astonished Martha, and a diamond-studded ornament which she took from her jewel-case and fastened in her hair.  The dress followed the wonderful curves of her beautiful body in all its dimpled plumpness and the jewel set off to perfection the fresh, oval face, laughing blue eyes—­wet forget-me-nots were the nearest their color—­piquant, upturned nose and saucy mouth.  The color of the gown, too, harmonized both with the delicate pink of her cheeks and with the tones of her rather too full throat showing above the string of pearls that clasped it.

Jane wore a simple gray silk gown which followed closely the slender and almost attenuated lines of her figure.  This gown the doctor always loved because, as he told her, it expressed so perfectly the simplicity of her mind and life.  Her only jewels were her deep, thoughtful eyes, and these, to-night, were brilliant with joy over her sister’s return.