"You must say that I decline to see any one who gives neither name nor card," said the countess. Then, seeing the man look both anxious and undecided, she added, sharply: "Is it a lady?"
He looked greatly relieved.
"It is, my lady. She is young and beautiful," he would have added, if he had dared.
"You would surely be able to discriminate between a lady and—a person of any other description?" said the countess.
The man bowed.
"The lady wishes me to add that her business was of great importance, and that she had traveled some distance to see you."
"Show her in here," said the countess.
The red light of the setting sun had moved then, and fell over her in great gleams on her dark velvet dress, on her exquisite point lace, and fine, costly gems. She looked regally proud, haughty, and unbending—the type of an English aristocratic matron, true to her class, true to her order, intolerant of any other. As she stood in the heart of the rosy light the door opened, and this time the countess of Lanswell was startled out of her calm. There entered the most beautiful girl she had ever beheld—tall, slender, graceful, exquisitely dressed, moving with the most perfect grace and harmony; her face like some grand, passionate poem—a girl lovely as a houri, who walked up to her with serene and queenly calm, saying:
"Lady Lanswell, I am your son's wife."
The countess, taken so entirely by surprise, looked long and keenly into that beautiful face—looked at the clear, bright eyes, so full of fire and passion—at the lovely, imperial mouth, and the whole face so full of tragedy and beauty; then in a clear, distinct voice, she answered: