“Impossible that any one should be as respectable as that man looks!” thought Sir James, impatiently.  He walked forward to the fire, warmed hands and feet chilled by a nipping east wind, and then, with his back to the warmth, he examined the room.

It was very characteristic of its mistress.  At Tallyn Henry Marsham had worked his will; here, in this house taken since his death, it was the will and taste of his widow which had prevailed.  A gray paper with a small gold sprig upon it, sofas and chairs not too luxurious, a Brussels carpet, dark and unobtrusive, and chintz curtains; on the walls, drawings by David Cox, Copley Fielding, and De Wint; a few books with Mudie labels; costly photographs of friends and relations, especially of the relations’ babies; on one table, and under a glass case, a model in pith of Lincoln Cathedral, made by Lady Lucy’s uncle, who had been a Canon of Lincoln; on another, a set of fine carved chessmen; such was the furniture of the room.  It expressed—­and with emphasis—­the tastes and likings of that section of English society in which, firmly based as it is upon an ample supply of all material goods, a seemly and intelligent interest in things ideal and spiritual is also to be found.  Everything in the room was in its place, and had been in its place for years.  Sir James got no help from the contemplation of it.

The door opened, and Lady Lucy came quietly in.  Sir James looked at her sharply as they shook hands.  She had more color than usual; but the result was to make the face look older, and certain lines in it disagreeably prominent.  Very likely she had been crying.  He hoped she had.

“Oliver told you to expect me?”

She assented.  Then, still standing, she looked at him steadily.

“This is a very terrible affair, Sir James.”

“Yes.  It must have been a great shock to you.”

“Oh! that does not matter,” she said, impatiently.  “I must not think of myself.  I must think of Oliver.  Will you sit down?”

She motioned him, in her stately way, to a seat.  He realized, as he faced her, that he beheld her in a new aspect.  She was no longer the gracious and smiling hostess, as her familiar friends knew her, both at Tallyn and in London.  Her manner threw a sudden light on certain features in her history:  Marsham’s continued dependence on his mother and inadequate allowance, the autocratic ability shown in the management of the Tallyn household and estates, management in which Marsham was allowed practically no share at all, and other traits and facts long known to him.  The gentle, scrupulous, composed woman of every day had vanished in something far more vigorously drawn; he felt himself confronted by a personality as strong as, and probably more stubborn than his own.

Lady Lucy seated herself.  She quietly arranged the folds of her black satin dress; she drew forward a stool, and rested her feet upon it.  Sir James watched her, uncertain how to begin.  But she saved him the decision.