“Nay, madam, this lady seems somewhat different,” replied the maid.
“Then let her be shown in at once, whoever she may be,” said Mrs. Abington. “There can surely be no scandal in receiving a lady visitor.”
She gave a glance at a mirror, and saw that her hair was in a proper condition for a visitor who was a lady. She knew that it did not matter so much when her visitors were of the other sex; and a moment afterwards there entered a graceful little woman, whom she could not recollect having ever seen before. She walked quickly to the centre of the room, and stood there, gazing with soft grey eyes at the actress, who had risen from her sofa, and was scrutinising her visitor.
There was a pause before Mrs. Abington, with a smile—the smile she reserved for women—quite different from that with which she was accustomed to greet men—said:
“Pray seat yourself, madam; and let me know to what I am indebted for the honour of this visit.”
But the lady made no move; she remained there, gazing at the actress without a word.
Mrs. Abington gave a laugh, saying, as she returned to her sofa:
“Do not let me hurry you, my dear lady; but I must ask your pardon if I seat myself.” Then the stranger spoke. “You are Mrs. Abington. I wish I had not come to you. Now that I find myself face to face with you, I perceive that I have no chance. You are overwhelmingly beautiful.”
“Did you come here only to tell me that? Faith, you might have saved yourself the trouble, my dear. I have known just how beautiful I am for the past twenty years,” laughed the actress.
“I did not come here to tell you that,” said the visitor; “on the contrary, I meant to call you an ugly harridan—a vile witch, who glories in seeing the ruin of good men; but now—well, now, I am dumb. I perceive you are so beautiful, it is only natural that all men—my husband among the number—should worship you.”