Jane made no answer.  Lucy had found a chair now and had laid her gloves, parasol, and handkerchief on another beside her.  Jane had resumed her seat; her slender neck and sloping shoulders and sparely modelled head with its simply dressed hair—­ she had removed the kerchief—­in silhouette against the white light of the window.

“What is it all about, Lucy?” she asked in a grave tone after a slight pause in Lucy’s talk.

“I have a great secret to tell you—­one you mustn’t breathe until I give you leave.”

She was leaning back in her chair now, her eyes trying to read Jane’s thoughts.  Her bare hands were resting in her lap, the jewels flashing from her fingers; about her dainty mouth there hovered, like a butterfly, a triumphant smile; whether this would alight and spread its wings into radiant laughter, or disappear, frightened by a gathering frown, depended on what would drop from her sister’s lips.

Jane looked up.  The strong light from the window threw her head into shadow; only the slight fluff of her hair glistened in the light.  This made an aureole which framed the Madonna’s face.

“Well, Lucy, what is it?” she asked again simply.

“Max is going to be married.”

“When?” rejoined Jane in the same quiet tone.  Her mind was not on Max or on anything connected with him.  It was on the shadow slowly settling upon all she loved.

“In December,” replied Lucy, a note of triumph in her voice, her smile broadening.

“Who to?”

“Me.”

With the single word a light ripple escaped from her lips.

Jane straightened herself in her chair.  A sudden faintness passed over her—­as if she had received a blow in the chest, stopping her breath.

“You mean—­you mean—­that you have promised to marry Max Feilding!” she gasped.

“That’s exactly what I do mean.”

The butterfly smile about Lucy’s mouth had vanished.  That straightening of the lips and slow contraction of the brow which Jane knew so well was taking its place.  Then she added nervously, unclasping her hands and picking up her gloves: 

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“I don’t know,” answered Jane, gazing about the room with a dazed look, as if seeking for a succor she could not find.  “I must think.  And so you have promised to marry Max!” she repeated, as if to herself.  “And in December.”  For a brief moment she paused, her eyes again downcast; then she raised her voice quickly and in a more positive tone asked, “And what do you mean to do with Ellen?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about, you dear thing.”  Lucy had come prepared to ignore any unfavorable criticisms Jane might make and to give her only sisterly affection in return.  “I want to give her to you for a few months more,” she added blandly, “and then we will take her abroad with us and send her to school either in Paris or Geneva, where her grandmother can be near her.  In a year or two she will come to us in Paris.”