The Lucas house stood back from the street behind its tall trees, screened from its surroundings, although its neighborhood was the best in town. “The old Lucas place” was a landmark, built shortly after the building of the Republic; it had been finished in time to entertain Lafayette when he had returned to see the new order which his youthful love of adventure had helped to establish on the western continent. It had been deemed a pity that the old estate was exposed to the danger of ultimate transformation into a Roman Catholic institution by the conversion of its present owner to the Faith of France, a Faith which might do very well for French heroes, born to it, but did not do at all for unheroic Americans. It was an unwarranted anxiety that apprehended such a transformation for the stately house; besides Jeanette, his oldest daughter, Robert Lucas had an older married son, three younger boys and two younger girls, so that heirs were not wanting to save the house from a Sisterhood, nor was its neighborhood falling off to bring about a desire on the part of the Lucas family to sell it. Cis went up its broad front walk to its wide, simply beautiful front door, impressed and quieted by the repose, the certainty of fundamental things, which reached her even on the exterior of the house. A soft-footed, soft-voiced maid, with perfect manners, responded to Cicely’s summons. She said: “Please come in, Miss Adair. If you don’t mind, will you go right up to Miss Jeanette’s room? She is expecting you, and gave those orders. I will show you the way.” She led Cis up a long flight of stairs--the house was remarkably high-ceiled--its steps low, mounting at the easiest possible angle, yet with a broad mahogany handrail to aid in progress. There was a deep recessed landing more than half-way up, an arched window lighting it, a splendid old clock standing back against the wall in its corner. The maid knocked on a door that stood slightly ajar at the rear of the hall on the second floor, and instantly pushed it open. “Miss Adair, Miss Jeanette. I brought her right up to you as you told me to,” she said. The maid stepped back and withdrew down the hall. A girl about Cicely’s age arose from a low couch on which she had been reclining, and said, speaking low, lifelessly, as if speaking were an effort: “Please come in, Miss Adair. You were kind to come. Will you take this chair?” She drew forward slightly a deep chair, softly cushioned in dark blue, and herself dropped back on the couch, sidewise among its piled pillows, not lying down, but resting on her elbow. Yet, listless though her attitude was, her left hand clutched the corner of a pillow, wrinkling it tautly in a nervous grasp.