Jane Foley was seated opposite her sister at the small table plainly set for five. She rose vivaciously, and came forward with outstretched hand. She wore a blue skirt and a white blouse and brown boots. She was twenty-eight, but her rather small proportions and her plentiful golden, fluffy hair made her seem about twenty. Her face was less homely than Susan’s, and more mobile. She smiled somewhat shyly, with an extraordinary radiant cheerfulness. It was impossible for her to conceal the fact that she was very good-natured and very happy. Finally, she limped.
“Susan will have the meals prompt,” she said, as they all sat down. “And as Susan left home on purpose to look after me, of course she’s the mistress. As far as that goes, she always was.”
Susan was spreading jam on a slice of bread-and-butter for the one-armed Nick.
“I dare say you don’t remember me playing the barrel organ all down Regent Street that day, do you?” said Miss Ingate.
“Oh, yes; quite well. You were magnificent!” answered Jane, with blue eyes sparkling.
“Well, though I only just saw you—I was so busy—I should remember you anywhere, Miss Foley,” said Miss Ingate.
“Do you notice any difference in her?” questioned Susan Foley harshly.
“N-o,” said Miss Ingate. “Except, perhaps, she looks even younger.”
“Didn’t you notice she’s lame?”
“Oh, well—yes, I did. But you didn’t expect me to mention that, did you? I thought your sister had just sprained her ankle, or something.”