Nevertheless, when Mrs. Ryder, combing out her long hair, gave one inadvertent tug, the fair enthusiast came back to earth, and asked her, rather sharply, who her head was running on.
Ryder, a very handsome young woman, with fine black eyes, made no reply, but only drew her breath audibly hard.
I do not very much wonder at that, nor at my having to answer that question for Mrs. Ryder. For her head was at that moment running, like any other woman's, on the man she was in love with.
And the man she was in love with was the husband of the lady, whose hair she was combing, and who put her that curious question—plump.
[CHAPTER IV.]
This Caroline Ryder was a character almost impossible to present so as to enable the reader to recognize her should she cross his path: so great was the contradiction between what she was, and what she seemed; and so perfect was the imitation.
She looked a respectable young spinster, with a grace of manner beyond her station, and a decency and propriety of demeanour that inspired respect.
She was a married woman, separated from her husband by mutual consent: and she had had many lovers, each of whom she had loved ardently—for a little while. She was a woman that brought to bear upon foolish, culpable, loves, a mental power that would have adorned the wool-sack.
The moment prudence or waning inclination made it advisable to break with the reigning favourite, she set to work to cool him down by deliberate coldness, sullenness, insolence; and generally succeeded. But, if he was incurable, she never hesitated as to her course; she smiled again on him and looked out for another place: being an invaluable servant, she got one directly; and was off to fresh pastures.