As Jane moved about welcoming her guests the doctor, whose eyes rarely left her face, became conscious that at no time in their lives had the contrast between the two sisters been greater.

One, a butterfly of thirty-eight, living only in the glow of the sunlight, radiant in plumage, alighting first on one 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 into hers, he listened, and yet she thought she detected his brain working behind his steadfast gaze.  It was as if he was searching for some hidden disease.  “He knows something,” she said to herself, when the doctor moved to let someone else take his place.  “How much I can’t tell.  I’ll get it all out of sister.”