To guard against the possibility of a too prolonged interview with Jane, ending, perhaps, in a disagreeable scene—­one beyond her control—­she had selected a sunny summer morning for the stage setting of her little comedy and an hour when Feilding was expected to call for her in his drag.  She and Max were to make a joint inspection that day of his new apartment at Beach Haven, into which he had just moved, as well as the stable containing the three extra vehicles and equine impedimenta, which were to add to their combined comfort and enjoyment.

Lucy had been walking in the garden looking at the rose-beds, her arm about her sister’s slender waist, her ears open to the sound of every passing vehicle—­ Max was expected at any moment—­when she began her lines.

“You won’t mind, Jane, dear, will you, if I get together a few things and move over to Beach Haven for a while?” she remarked simply, just as she might have done had she asked permission to go upstairs to take a nap.  “I think we should all encourage a new enterprise like the hotel, especially old families like ours.  And then the sea air always does me so much good.  Nothing like Trouville air, my dear husband used to tell me, when I came back in the autumn.  You don’t mind, do you?”

“For how long, Lucy?” asked Jane, with a tone of disappointment in her voice, as she placed her foot on the top step of the porch.

“Oh, I can’t tell.  Depends very much on how I like it.”  As she spoke she drew up an easy-chair for Jane and settled herself in another.  Then she added carelessly:  “Oh, perhaps a month—­perhaps two.”

“Two months!” exclaimed Jane in astonishment, dropping into her seat.  “Why, what do you want to leave Yardley for?  O Lucy, don’t—­please don’t go!”

“But you can come over, and I can come here,” rejoined Lucy in a coaxing tone.

“Yes; but I don’t want to come over.  I want you at home.  And it’s so lovely here.  I have never seen the garden look so beautiful; and you have your own room, and this little porch is so cosey.  The hotel is a new building, and the doctor says a very damp one, with everything freshly plastered.  He won’t let any of his patients go there for some weeks, he tells me.  Why should you want to go?  I really couldn’t think of it, dear.  I’d miss you dreadfully.”

“You dear old sister,” answered Lucy, laying her parasol on the small table beside her, “you are so old-fashioned.  Habit, if nothing else, would make me go.  I have hardly passed a summer in Paris or Geneva since I left you; and you know how delightful my visits to Biarritz used to be years ago.  Since my marriage I have never stayed in any one place so long as this.  I must have the sea air.”

“But the salt water is right here, Lucy, within a short walk of our gate, and the air is the same.”  Jane’s face wore a troubled look, and there was an anxious, almost frightened tone in her voice.