“I'm afraid I could be guilty of so great an enormity,” said she, smiling superciliously.
“It's exactly the word for it, whatever you may think,” said he, doggedly. “All I can say is, that you don't know Georgina, or you'd never have dreamt of it.”
“In that case it is better I should know her; so I'll get my bonnet and shawl at once.”
She was back in the room in a moment, and they set out for the Palazzo Gondi.
What would not Beecher have given, as they drove along, for courage to counsel and advise her,—to admonish as to this, and caution as to that? And yet he did not dare to utter a word, and she was as silent.
It would not be very easy to say exactly what sort of person Lady Georgina expected in her sister-in-law; indeed, she had pictured her in so many shapes to herself that there was not an incongruity omitted in the composition, and she fancied her bold, daring, timid, awkward, impertinent, and shy alternately, and, in this conflict of anticipation, it was that Lizzy entered. So utterly overcome was Lady Georgina by astonishment, that she actually advanced to meet her in some confusion, and then, taking her hand, led her to a seat on the sofa beside her.
While the ordinary interchange of commonplaces went on,—and nothing could be more ordinary or commonplace than the words of their greeting,—each calmly surveyed the other. What thoughts passed in their minds, what inferences were drawn, and what conclusions formed in this moment, it is not for me to guess. To women alone pertains that marvellous freemasonry that scans character at a glance, and investigates the sincerity of a disposition and the value of a lace flounce with the same practised facility. If Lady Georgina was astonished by the striking beauty of her sister-in-law, she was amazed still more by her manner and her tone. Where could she have learned that graceful repose,—that simplicity, which is the very highest art? Where and how had she caught up that gentle quietude which breathes like a balmy odor over the well-bred world? How had she acquired that subtlety by which wit is made to sparkle and never to startle; and what training had told her how to weave through all she said the flattery of a wish to please?
Woman of the world as she was, Lady Lackington had seen no such marvel as this. It was no detraction from its merit that it might be all acting, for it was still “high art.” Not a fault could she detect in look, gesture, or tone, and yet all seemed as easy and unstudied as possible. Her Ladyship knew well that the practice of society confers all these advantages; but here was one who had never mixed with the world, who, by her own confession, “knew no one,” and yet was a mistress of every art that rules society.