"Madam, you are very kind. I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing you somewhere. Your name is—"
"Ursula Halifax. Do you remember?"—speaking gently as she would have done to a child.
Lady Caroline bowed—a ghastly mockery of her former sprightly grace. "Not exactly; but I dare say I shall presently—au revoir, madame!"
She was going away, kissing her hand—that yellow, wrinkled, old woman's hand,—but John stopped her.
"My wife wants to speak to you, Lady Caroline. She wishes you to come home with us."
"Plait il?—oh yes; I understand. I shall be happy—most happy."
John offered her his arm with an air of grave deference; Mrs. Halifax supported her on the other side. Without more ado, they put her in the carriage and drove home, leaving Maud in my charge, and leaving astounded Norton Bury to think and say exactly what it pleased.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
For nearly three years Lady Caroline lived in our house—if that miserable existence of hers could be called living—bedridden, fallen into second childhood: