“Zana.”
His round eyes opened with astonishment. “Miss Zana, is it?” he said, after a moment of puzzled thought.
“Zana, that is all.”
He beckoned a footman, and whispered with him. The man disappeared up some mysterious staircase in the back part of the hall. The porter returned, and seated himself in his great gothic chair, took a position, and began to eye me as stage kings sometimes survey the suppliants that come before them.
The footman came back, walking quickly, and with noiseless step, as well-bred servants usually do in England. Her ladyship would be happy to receive the young person.
I followed him in silence. Would her son be there? This thought made my limbs tremble, but I think no visible agitation marked my demeanor or my countenance.
Lady Catherine was in her dressing-room, with a small breakfast-table before her, covered with Sèvres china and glittering silver. The delicate breakfast seemed yet untasted, save that one of the cups was stained with a little chocolate.
Lady Catherine arose, and though she did not come forward, stood up to receive me. It might have been the light which fell through curtains of pale, blue silk, but she certainly looked unusually white and haggard. I saw her thin hand clutch itself among the folds of her mourning gown, and her eyes wavered as they met mine.
There was an awkward silence as I advanced toward the table. I think she was struggling to speak calmly, for her voice was unnatural when she did address me.
“Be seated,” she said falling back to her lounge, not with her usual languid ease, but abruptly, as if in need of support, “be seated, I—I am happy to receive you.”