at first frequently; but letters grew
shorter on both sides, and arrived less often. The two were now to meet
for the first time since Cecily was a child of fourteen.

The ladies arrived at the villa about eleven o'clock. Miriam had shown
herself indisposed to speak of them, both last evening, when Mallard
was present, and again this morning when alone with her relatives; at
breakfast she was even more taciturn than usual, and kept her room for
an hour after the meal. Then, however, she came to sit with Eleanor,
and remained when the visitors were announced.

Mrs. Lessingham did not answer to the common idea of a strong-minded
woman. At forty-seven she preserved much natural grace of bearing, a
good complexion, pleasantly mobile features. Her dress was in excellent
taste, tending to elaboration, such as becomes a lady who makes some
figure in the world of ease. Little wrinkles at the outer corners of
her eyes assisted her look of placid thought fulness; when she spoke,
these were wont to disappear, and the expression of her face became an
animated intelligence, an eager curiosity, or a vivacious good-humour,
Her lips gave a hint of sarcasm, but this was reserved for special
occasions; as a rule her habit of speech was suave, much observant of
amenities. One might have imagined that she had enjoyed a calm life,
but this was far from being the case. The daughter of a country
solicitor, she married early--for love, and the issue was disastrous.
Above her right temple, just at the roots of the hair, a scar was
discoverable; it was the memento of an occasion on which her husband
aimed a blow at her with a mantelpiece ornament, and came within an ace
of murder. Intimates of the household said that the provocation was
great--that Mrs. Lessingham's gift of sarcasm had that morning
displayed itself much too brilliantly. Still, the missile was an
extreme retort, and on the whole it could not be wondered at that
husband and wife resolved to live apart in future. Mr. Lessingham was,
in fact, an aristocratic boor, and his wife never puzzled so much over
any intellectual difficulty as she did over the question how, as a
girl, she came to imagine herself enamoured of him. She was not,
perhaps, singular in her concernment with such a personal problem.

"It is six years since I was in Italy," she said, when greetings were
over, and she had seated herself. "Don't you envy me my companion, Mrs.
Spence? If anything could revive one's fi