So she bowed and tried to smile, and the joyous clamour of the bells brought the awful lump into her throat again.  It reminded her of the ringing of the chimes at the New York church on that day of her marriage, which had been so full of gay, luxurious bustle, so crowded with wedding presents, and flowers, and warm-hearted, affectionate congratulations, and good wishes uttered in merry American voices.

The park at Stornham Court was large and beautiful and old.  The trees were magnificent, and the broad sweep of sward and rich dip of ferny dell all that the imagination could desire.  The Court itself was old, and many-gabled and mellow-red and fine.  Rosalie had learned from no precedent as yet that houses of its kind may represent the apotheosis of discomfort and dilapidation within, and only become more beautiful without.  Tumbled-down chimneys and broken tiles, being clambered over by tossing ivy, are pictures to delight the soul.

As she descended from the carriage the girl was tremulous and uncertain of herself and much overpowered by the unbending air of the man-servant who received her as if she were a parcel in which it was no part of his duty to take the smallest interest.  As she mounted the stone steps she caught a glimpse of broad gloom within the threshold, a big, square, dingy hall where some other servants were drawn up in a row.  She had read of something of the sort in English novels, and she was suddenly embarrassed afresh by her realisation of the fact that she did not know what to do and that if she made a mistake Nigel would never forgive her.

An elderly woman came out of a room opening into the hall.  She was an ugly woman of a rigid carriage, which, with the obvious intention of being severely majestic, was only antagonistic.  She had a flaccid chin, and was curiously like Nigel.  She had also his expression when he intended to be disagreeable.  She was the Dowager Lady Anstruthers, and being an entirely revolting old person at her best, she objected extremely to the transatlantic bride who had made her a dowager, though she was determinedly prepared to profit by any practical benefit likely to accrue.

“Well, Nigel,” she said in a deep voice.  “Here you are at last.”

This was of course a statement not to be refuted.  She held out a leathern cheek, and as Sir Nigel also presented his, their caress of greeting was a singular and not effusive one.

“Is this your wife?” she asked, giving Rosalie a bony hand.  And as he did not indignantly deny this to be the fact, she added, “How do you do?”