lights in the stones winked and shifted no longer; they blazed steadily. Then, though she still stood without movement of foot, some tremor must have held and shaken her, for the lights were a galaxy of shifting colour. Then she moved, and moved quickly to where Maud stood.
"Ah, that is big, that is fine!" she said. "God grant it may never, as you say, be put to proof. I must go, Maud. It is late. Chubby would be an utter brute if he did not love you. Tell him so, also, from me."
Then she completely shook off that which had caused her moment of absolute stillness, and had broken it again with that sudden tremor.
"And another coincidence," she said. "Again I go down into the country to-morrow, just as I did four years ago, when we talked here. But that is the end of the chain. Otherwise I should have to go up to my bedroom and have my hair brushed out by you, which wouldn't do, as I imagine that room is Chubby's dressing-room. Oh, and in an expansive moment, a week ago, I asked Aunt Cathie to come and stay at Brayton for the momentous days. The old darling is rather lonely, I think, since Aunt Elizabeth's death. Edgar suggested it. I hope it will be a greater success than the occasion on which he last suggested Aunt Cathie should stay with us."
Maud winced.
"Oh, don't!" she said; "it was so dreadful and so hopeless."
Lucia looked at her with a sort of soft reproach. At least, there was the identical expression in her eyes which is generally attributed to soft reproach.
"You still think it was partly my fault, you know," she said. "How could I help Mouse and Harry talking about her? It must have been that. I had been charming to her. Well, I shall be again. Good-night, dearest."
Maud went out with Lucia on to the landing at the top of the stairs. Something, perhaps, of Lucia's blues had infected her, for, though not naturally imaginative, she was very conscious, as she stood there, watching the shining graceful figure of the friend she loved stepping downstairs, of a deep dim uneasiness, not exactly anxiety, not exactly fear, but of the fiery quality which Lucia had said was characteristic of dreams. Step by step she descended; then, just before the stair-rail hid her, she looked up and back.
"It wasn't my fault, darling," she said. "Good-night."
