Albinia was seated near the drawing-room fire when I went in, reading a little, or working a little, I can't say which. She is always doing a little of something, which ends in nothing. Perhaps she was working, for I noticed the flash of her diamond rings as she moved her hands.
Craven likes his wife to dress richly, and to make a good display of jewellery,—perhaps as an advertisement of his wealth. She is apt to be a little overladen with gems, just as her drawing-room is overladen with gilding. Her natural taste is good, but she conforms to her husband's taste in all such minor matters. Wisely, no doubt. Anything is better than a succession of domestic jars; and when Albinia became Craven's wife, she knew the manner of man who was to be her husband.
"What a dull afternoon we have had," I said.
"Yes," Albinia answered slowly. "Have you been out till now?"
I did not at once respond. Her question fluttered by me, and was forgotten. A reflection of our two figures in a pier-glass, lit up by half-lowered gas and dancing flames, had attracted my attention, and set me cogitating.
Albinia and I are often said to be alike. Though eight years my senior, she looks young for her age, and I—at least when grave—look decidedly old for mine. That brings us nearer together, and makes the mistake as to twinship occasionally possible. If I were to describe Albinia as I saw her in the glass—rather tall, rather thin, with a good figure, long supple limbs, and much natural self-possession; also with grey eyes, dark hair, and tolerably regular features—the description would apply equally well to myself, and probably would give no true impression of either.
For in reality Albinia and I are not alike. It is impossible that we should be. We may be formed on much the same model; eyes and hair may be the same in colouring; but we are not alike. Differences of temperament and character must show in the face. Albinia's torpid easiness of disposition and her willingness to submit, are the precise converse of my untiring energy and troublesome strength of will. Strangers may and sometimes do mistake the one for the other; but those who know us well are apt to deny the fact of any resemblance at all,—which is curious.
I have seen Albinia look very pretty at times,—not always, but under certain circumstances. Generally her fault is a lack of animation; and if this is overcome, she wins a good deal of admiration. Much more than I do. Some indeed tell me that I am far better looking than Albinia, but those are only my particular friends. We always see the best of a face when it is really dear to us. Many, I know, count me not at all attractive; and they are the people for whom I do not care. But I do not know why I should write all this.
The difference of our respective standings in life was well marked, that afternoon, by the blaze of Albinia's diamonds and the lustre of her splendid silk, seen side by side with my plain black serge and jet brooch. I did think she might have worn deeper mourning for the good old aunt to whom in childhood we both owed so much. But—there is Craven!
"Well," Albinia said at length.