A visitor from the great London world was so rare an event that there was naturally a little excitement in the idea of Lady Kirkbank’s arrival.  The handsomest and most spacious of the spare bedrooms was prepared for the occasion.  The housekeeper was told that the dinner must be perfect.  There must be nothing old-fashioned or ponderous; there must be mind as well as matter in everything.  Rarely did Lady Maulevrier look at a bill of fare; but on this particular morning she went carefully through the menu, and corrected it with her own hand.

A pair of post-horses brought Lady Kirkbank and her maid from Windermere station, in time for afternoon tea, and the friends who had only met twice within the last forty years, embraced each other on the threshold of Lady Maulevrier’s morning-room.

‘My dearest Di,’ cried Lady Kirkbank, ’what a delight to see you again after such ages; and what a too lovely spot you have chosen for your retreat from the world, the flesh, and the devil.  If I could be a recluse anywhere, it would be amongst just such delicious surroundings.’

Without, twilight shades were gathering; within, there was only the light of a fire and a shaded lamp upon the tea table; there was just light enough for the two women to see each other’s faces, and the change which time had wrought there.

Never did womanhood in advanced years offer a more striking contrast than that presented by the woman of fashion and the recluse.  Lady Maulevrier was almost as handsome in the winter of her days as she had been when life was in its spring.  The tall, slim figure, erect as a dart, the delicately chiselled features and alabaster complexion, the soft silvery hair, the perfect hand, whiter and more transparent than the hand of girlhood, the stately movements and bearing, all combined to make Lady Maulevrier a queen among woman.  Her brocade gown of a deep shade of red, with a border of dark sable on cuffs and collar, suggested a portrait by Velasquez.  She wore no ornaments except the fine old Brazilian diamonds which flashed and sparkled upon her slender fingers.

If Lady Maulevrier looked like a picture in the Escurial, Lady Kirkbank resembled a caricature in La Vie Parisienne.  Everything she wore was in the very latest fashion of the Parisian demi-monde, that exaggerated elegance of a fashion plate which only the most exquisite of women could redeem from vulgarity.  Plush, brocade, peacock’s feathers, golden bangles, mousquetaire gloves, a bonnet of purple plumage set off by ornaments of filagree gold, an infantine little muff of lace and wild flowers, buttercups and daisies; and hair, eyebrows and complexion as artificial as the flowers on the muff.

All that art could do to obliterate the traces of age had been done for Georgina Kirkbank.  But seventy years are not to be obliterated easily, and the crow’s feet showed through the bloom de Ninon, and the eyes under the painted arches were glassy and haggard, the carnation lips had a withered look.  Age was made all the more palpable by the artifice which would have disguised it.