This gloom was impossible. "Your ladyship has never been well since you married Sir Cecil," rejoined Mrs. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely. It was empty. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. From the window he saw The Tigress faring toward Copeley's! Then somebody was coming? Some political high muckamuck, probably.
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