"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.

Lucy's smile vanished suddenly. "Well, what if it is plump?" said
she. "What is the use of it? A girl living here in East Westland