To give herself time to think, Jane crossed the room and sat opposite Melody. “Am I to understand that you did not hurt your ankle yesterday?”

“I hurt it exactly as much as I hurt it a fortnight ago. Only my jealousy injured me.” Melody flung herself back on the sofa.

“Jealousy? What or who are you so jealous of that you would pretend to be injured?”

“Of you! How am I to compare with you and your great talents? I saw how everyone admired your tableau vivant and how they looked at me as if wondering what I could do, and the answer is nothing. I can do nothing that a man such as Mr. Dunkirk would esteem. And so when I stumbled and lost my shoe and Mr. Dunkirk—” Here she sighed and covered her face again. “He was by my side, so suddenly and so quickly helping me up. I wanted it to last longer, so I pretended that I needed more aid than I did, and then when Captain Livingston came to my aid as well . . . ! It was wrong. I know it was wrong. But you must understand that I could not then admit that I had not hurt myself.”

Jane shook her head, bewildered by her sister’s jealousy toward her. Her! Who had not the slightest hope of marrying, were it not for the sum that Mr. Ellsworth had put away for her dowry. But more than the bewilderment, she was dismayed by what her sister had confessed. “You could certainly have explained that the injury was not so great as it first appeared; that shock had given it more weight than it merited. Oh, Melody, what were you thinking?”

“I was not thinking! I was feeling! And is it so terrible a thing? I have hurt no one save myself, and he came today, did he not?” She twisted her hands together in supplication. “Please. You cannot tell anyone. I should die if he knew.”

It was not clear whether “he” were Mr. Dunkirk or Captain Livingston, but Jane felt that it hardly mattered. She could not censure Melody strongly enough. To be entreated to keep this a secret between them, when all her common sense cried out to tell her father, was almost too great a burden. Though the greater part of her knew that it would do no good, Jane tried to impress upon her younger sister the seriousness of what she had done. “Yes, he came. In response to a lie. Melody, you must understand that lies are not confined to words; deeds, too, may be—”

“I do not need to be lectured by you, dear sister, to know what I have done.” Melody stood abruptly, without any sign of the injury she had claimed. “I confided in you, hoping that you would understand the very real torment in my breast, but you have thrown my confidence back in my face. I trusted you with my peace of mind and you have taken that from me. Now who will I turn to, if I cannot trust you?” Without waiting for a response, she strode across the drawing room. At the door, she paused and then limped cautiously out, giving lie to her protestations of torment as she made her slow way out of the drawing room, prolonging her falsehood in the sight of any who saw her.