"But he's not old," said Jane, feebly resisting the flood of Lucilla's eloquence.
"He's thirty, I daresay—and boys think everybody's old."
"But Mrs. Doveton?"
"Oh, hers was only hearsay. You mark my words . . . "
"You said that before."
"And I'll keep on saying it. You mark my words. He's the owner, and if we play our cards well he'll let us the house."
"But you said it's too big, and we couldn't afford the rent and the army of gardeners and"
"I don't care what I said—that was before I'd seen him. He's the owner. I feel it in my bones. Jane, do be decent to him—I feel this is a turning-point in our careers. I feel that this house is going to be the making of us."
"It's very nearly been the unmaking of me," said Jane, raised on her elbow to discuss the question more actively. "I feel as though I'd had about enough of the house. No, don't tell me to mark your words—I can't bear it. If you say that again I shall scream. Let me get off this table, anyhow, and be right side up before your nice young friend comes back. Look here, if that ankle's to be bandaged at all it ought to be now. I feel it in my bones, as you're so fond of saying. Can't you find something—a roller towel?"
Lucilla found one and split it into bandages with a carving-knife.
"If he takes wine we may take towels," she said, and bandaged the red, swollen ankle.
"Now get my stocking on before he comes back. What a blessing we wear sensible, opaque stockings. I don't think there's anything in the world more loathsome than red legs showing through the thin black of imitation silk stockings. Now shut the shutters. Give me that broom—it'll make a lovely crutch."
"Where are you off to?" Lucilla followed the clump, clump of the broom.
"To where there's a looking-glass," said Jane. "I don't
