'Why—Lucy!'
Dora was still bending over her work when a well-known tap at the door startled her meditations.
Lucy put her head in, and, finding Dora alone, came in with a look of relief. Settling herself in a chair opposite Dora, she took off her hat, smoothed the coils of hair to which it had been pinned, unbuttoned the smart little jacket of pilot cloth, and threw back the silk handkerchief inside; and all with a feverish haste and irritation as though everything she touched vexed her.
'What's the matter, Lucy?' said Dora, after a little pause. At the moment of Lucy's entrance she had been absorbed in a measurement.
'Nothing!' said Lucy quickly. 'Dora, you've got your hair loose!'
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.'