Her hair, once so skilfully darkened, was now
permitted to tell the truth, and revealed the sober colouring of age,
in gray. The lower face had fallen away in substance; and even the
penetrating brightness of her large dark eyes was a little dimmed. All
that had been left in her of the attractions of past days, owed its
vital preservation to her stage training. Her suave grace of movement,
and the deep elocutionary melody of her voice, still identified Mrs.
Vimpany--disguised as she was in a dress of dull brown, shorn without
mercy of the milliner's hideous improvements to the figure. "Will you
shake hands with me, Mr. Mountjoy?" Those were the first words she said
to him, in a sad subdued manner, on entering the room.
"Why not?" Hugh asked, giving her his hand.
"You can have no very favourable remembrance of me," she answered. "But
I hope to produce a better impression--if you can spare me a little of
your time. You may, or may not, have heard of my separation from my
husband. Anyway, it is needless to trouble you on the subject; you know
Mr. Vimpany; you can guess what I have suffered, and why I have left
him. If he comes to you, I hope you will not tell him where Lady Harry
is,"--
Hugh interposed: "Pray don't speak of her by that name! Call her
'Iris,' as I do.
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