There came back to her momentary visions from her own quiet past--a country lane at evening where a man had put his arm round her and kissed her--her wedding-evening by the sea, when the sun went down, and all the ways were darkened, and the stars came out--and that telegram which put an end to everything, which she had scarcely had time to feel, because her mother was so ill, and wanted her every moment.

Had she--even she--in her poor, drab, little life--had her moments of living Poetry, of transforming Colour, like others--without knowing it?
Helena watched her, as though in a quick, unspoken sympathy, her own storm of feeling subsiding.
"Do you know, Lucy, you look very nice indeed in that little black dress!" she said, in her soft, low voice, like the voice of an incantation, that she had used the night before.

"You are the neatest, daintiest person!--not prim--but you make everything you wear refined.
When I compare you with Cynthia Welwyn!" She raised her shoulders scornfully.

Lucy Friend, aghast at the outrageousness of the comparison, tried to silence her--but quite in vain.

Helena ran on.
"Did you watch Cynthia last night?
She was playing for Cousin Philip with all her might.