Nora was genuinely moved. She leaned over and kissed Miss Pringle, her eyes filling with quick tears.
Then she went into the house. The Wickhams were already in the drawing-room. Mrs. James Wickham was a pretty young woman, a good ten years younger than her unattractive husband. Of the two, Nora preferred Mr. Wickham. There was a certain cynicism about her insincerity which his, somehow, lacked. Even now, they wore their rue with a difference.
Mrs. Wickham's mourning was as correct and elegant as a fashionable dressmaker could make it; the very latest thing in grief. Mr. Wickham was far less sumptuous. Beyond the customary band on his hat and a pair of black gloves conspicuously new, he had apparently made little expenditure on his costume. As Nora entered, Mrs. Wickham was pulling off her gloves.
"How do yon do?" she said carelessly. "Ouf! Do put the blinds up, Miss Marsh. Really, we needn't be depressed any more. Jim, if you love me, take those gloves off. They're perfectly revolting."
"Why, what's wrong with them! The fellow in the shop told me they were the right thing."
"No doubt; I never saw anyone look quite so funereal as you do."
"Well," retorted her husband, "you didn't want me to get myself up as if I were going to a wedding, did you?"
"Were there many people?" said Nora hastily.
The insolence of Mrs. Wickham's glance was scarcely veiled.
"Oh, quite a lot," she drawled. "The sort of people who indulge in other peoples' funerals as a mild form of dissipation."