What had Jean to do with it?
The prince was her own lover, as her gloves were her own.
But indeed, the prince and love were but shadows on the far sky line to the little girl; the real things were her work and her Bible, and George's mother talking to her.

She often traced remembered expressions on Mrs.Waldeaux's face; the gayety, the sympathy, a strange foreboding in the eyes.

Finer meanings, surely, than any in the features of these immortal insipid Madonnas! Sometimes Lucy could not decide whether she had seen these meanings on Frances Waldeaux's face, or on her son's.
She sewed until late in the afternoon.

There came a tap at the door.
She opened it, and there stood Mrs.Waldeaux, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Lucy jumped at her, trembling, and hugged her.
"Oh, come in! Come in!" she cried shrilly.

"I have just been thinking of you and talking to you!" Frances laughed, bewildered.