othed, incarnadined
existence which is proper to elderly ladies paying calls in London about
five o'clock in the afternoon. Portraits by Romney, seen through glass,
have something of their pink, mellow look, their blooming softness, as
of apricots hanging upon a red wall in the afternoon sun. Mrs. Cosham
was so appareled with hanging muffs, chains, and swinging draperies that
it was impossible to detect the shape of a human being in the mass of
brown and black which filled the arm-chair. Mrs. Milvain was a much
slighter figure; but the same doubt as to the precise lines of her
contour filled Ralph, as he regarded them, with dismal foreboding.
What remark of his would ever reach these fabulous and fantastic
characters?--for there was something fantastically unreal in the curious
swayings and noddings of Mrs. Cosham, as if her equipment included a
large wire spring. Her voice had a high-pitched, cooing note, which
prolonged words and cut them short until the English language seemed
no longer fit for common purposes. In a moment of nervousness, so Ralph
thought, Katharine had turned on innumerable electric lights. But Mrs.
Cosham had gained impetus (perhaps her swaying movements had that end in
view) for sustained speech; and she now addressed Ralph deliberately and
elaborately.

"I come from Woking, Mr. Popham. You may well ask me, why Woking? and to
that I answer, for perhaps the hundredth time, because of the sunsets.
We went there for the sunsets, but that was five-and-twenty years ago.
Where are the sunsets now? Alas! There is no sunset now nearer than the
South Coast." Her rich and romantic notes were accompanied by a wave
of a long white hand, which, when waved, gave off a flash of diamonds,
rubies, and emeralds. Ralph wondered whether she more resembled an
elephant, with a jeweled head-dress, or a superb cockatoo, balanced
insecurely upon its perch, and pecking capriciously at a lump of sugar.

"Where are the sunsets now?" she repeated. "Do you find sunsets now, Mr.
Popham?"

"I live at Highgate," he replied.

"At Highgate? Yes, Highgate has its charms; your Uncle John lived at
Highgate," she jerked in the direction of Katharine. She sank her head
upon her breast, as if for a moment's meditation, which past, she looked
up and observed: "I dare say there are very pretty lanes in Highgate.
I can recollect walking with your mother, Katharine, through lanes
blossoming with wild hawthorn. But where is the hawthorn n