Yet Jane Smith was the very last person with whom Lucy could relax her vigilance in keeping Hugh to herself. She often shuddered to think how, had Mrs. Morison’s fair appearances held out a little longer, she might have been tempted to trust her boy with the nice motherly-looking widow—a misplaced confidence which might have ended in a terrible catastrophe. But Jane Smith offered no such temptation. She was so plainly nothing but the common professional servant, who does her work as well as any work can be done without genuine interest or any sense of what is fitting or pretty. After she had spread a tablecloth Mrs. Challoner generally had to straighten it; she drew the blinds up askew; she never noticed when a stair-rod slipped from its socket. Lucy herself always had to be watchful that clean sheets were well aired. Once she found them put quite damp upon the beds. Pollie had always fed the cat in the kitchen, and so had Mrs. Morison, and certainly the poor animal had thriven well under her brief _régime_, till that day of disgrace, when she dropped boiling gravy on it! But Lucy remarked that pussy, who had always come upstairs for “company,” now often came up mewing. Puss seemed getting thin, so Lucy took its meals into her own care. She asked Jane Smith if she neglected her. Jane Smith said “No,” but owned she “might have forgotten it sometimes.” That was Jane Smith all over. She took her wages and did her work, but it was without any “head,” and also, Lucy was forced to admit, without any heart. There was not much definite fault to be found with this Jane. The kitchen was fairly clean and tidy; it had only ceased to look snug and inviting. The public rooms were presentable—after Lucy had gone round everywhere, shaking out a curtain here, removing a chair from grazing the wall there, and lifting china bowls from perilous positions on the very edge of a shelf. As for the bedrooms, Jane did not seem to know how to make a bed comfortably, and did not seem able to learn. Lucy generally had much adjustment to do before she could happily court slumber. Still Jane carried on what may be called “the ruck” of household labour after a fashion. Lucy did not dream of giving her notice to leave, not being one of those mistresses with whom that possibility is for ever present. Indeed with her strained nerves and strength it seemed really far easier to supplement Jane’s perfunctory work than to entertain any thought of once more facing change and a wrestle with the unknown.