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.