Dora put up her hand patiently. She was accustomed to be put to rights. It was characteristic at once of her dreaminess and her powers of self-discipline that she was fairly orderly, though she had great difficulty in being so. Without a constant struggle, she would have had loose plaits and hanging strings about her always. Lucy's trimness was a perpetual marvel to her. It was like the contrast between the soft indeterminate lines of her charming face and Lucy's small, sharply cut features. Lucy, still restless, began tormenting the feather in her hat. 'When are you going to finish that, Dora?' she asked, nodding towards the frame. 'Oh it won't be very long now,' said Dora, putting her head on one side that she might take a general survey, at once loving and critical, of her work. 'You oughtn't to sit so close at it,' said Lucy decidedly; 'you'll spoil your complexion.' 'I've none to spoil.' 'Oh, yes, you have, Dora--that's so silly of you. You aren't sallow a bit. It's pretty to be pale like that. Lots of people say so--not quite so pale as you are sometimes, perhaps--but I know why _that_ is,' said Lucy, with a half-malicious emphasis. A slight pink rose in Dora's cheeks, but she bent over her frame and said nothing. 'Does your clergyman _tell_ you to fast in Lent, Dora--who tells you?' 'The Church!' replied Dora, scandalised and looking up with bright eyes. 'I wish you understood things a little more, Lucy.' 'I can't,' said Lucy, with a pettish sigh, 'and I don't care twopence!' She threw herself back in her rickety chair. Her arm dropped over the side, and she lay staring at the ceiling. Dora went on with her work in silence for a minute, and then looked up to see a tear dropping from Lucy's cheek on to the horsehair covering of the chair. 'Lucy, what _is_ the matter?--I knew there was something wrong!' Lucy sat up and groped energetically for her handkerchief. 'You wouldn't care,' she said, her lips quivering--'nobody cares!' And, sinking down again, she hid her face and fairly burst out sobbing. Dora, in alarm, pushed aside her frame and tried to caress and console her. But Lucy held her off, and in a second or two was angrily drying her eyes. 'Oh, you can't do any good, Dora--not the least good. It's father--you know well enough what it is--I shall never get on with father if I live to be a hundred!' 'Well, you haven't had long to try in,' said Dora, smiling. 'Quite long enough to know,' replied Lucy, drearily. 'I know I shall have a horrid life--I must. Nobody can help it. Do you know we've got another shopman, Dora?' The tone of childish scorn she threw into the question was inimitable. Dora with difficulty kept from laughing.