Miss Lucy seemed absorbed in her correspondence. She felt that Miss Keating's eyes were upon her, and as she wrote she planned a dexterous retreat. It would, she knew, be difficult, owing to Miss Keating's complete occupation of the sofa by the door. She had made that lady's acquaintance in the morning, having found her sitting sad and solitary in the lounge. She had then felt that it would be unkind not to say something to her, and she had spent the greater part of the morning saying it. Miss Keating had tracked the thin thread of conversation carefully, as if in search of an unapparent opportunity. Jane, aware of the watchfulness of her method, had taken fright and left her. She had had an awful feeling that Miss Keating was about to bestow a confidence on her; somebody else's confidence, which Miss Keating had broken badly, she suspected. Jane had finished her letters. She was addressing the envelopes. Now she was stamping them. Now she was crossing the room. Miss Keating lowered her eyes as the moment came which was to bring her into communion with the Lucys. Jane had made her way very quietly to the door, and thought to pass through it unobserved, when Miss Keating seemed to leap up from her sofa as from an ambush. "Miss Lucy," she said, and Jane turned at the penetrating sibilants of her name. Miss Keating thrust toward her a face of tragic and imminent appeal. A nervous vibration passed through her and communicated itself to Jane. "What is it?" Jane paused in the doorway. "May I speak to you a moment?" "Certainly." But Miss Keating did not speak. She stood there, clasping and unclasping her hands. It struck Jane that she was trying to conceal an eagerness of which she was more than half ashamed. "What is it?" she said again. Miss Keating sighed. "Will you sit down? Here--I think." She glanced significantly at the old lady who was betraying unmistakable interest in the scene. There was no place where they could sit beyond her range of vision. But the sofa was on the far side of it, and Miss Keating's back protested against observation. She bent forward, her thin arms stretched out to Jane, her hands locked, as if she still held tight the confidence she offered. "Miss Lucy," she said, "you were so kind to me this morning, so kind and helpful." "I didn't know it." "No, you didn't know it." Miss Keating looked down, and she smiled as if at some pleasant secret of her own. "I think when we are really helping each other we don't know it. You couldn't realise what it meant to me, your just coming up and speaking to me that way." "I'm very glad," said Jane; and thought she meant it. Miss Keating smiled again. "I wonder," she said, "if I might ask you to help me again?" "If I can." "You look as if you could. I'm in a great difficulty, and I would like you--if you would--to give me your advice." "That," said Jane, "is a very dangerous thing to give."