“Oh, by the way, Lady Bellamy,” said Mildred, after a pause, “I believe that you are acquainted with the young lady to whom Mr. Heigham is engaged?” She had meant to say, “to be married,” but the words stuck in her throat.
“Oh, yes, I know her well.”
“I am so glad. I am quite curious to hear what she is like; one can never put much faith in lovers’ raptures, you know.”
“Do you mean in person or in character?”
“Both.”
“Well, Angela Caresfoot is as lovely a woman as ever I saw, with a noble figure, well-set head, and magnificent eyes and hair.”
Mildred turned a little pale and bit her lips.
“As to her character, I can hardly describe it. She lives in an atmosphere of her own, an atmosphere that I cannot reach, or, at any rate, cannot breathe. But if you can imagine a woman whose mind is enriched with learning as profound as that of the first classical scholars of the day, and tinged with an originality all her own; a woman whose faith is as steady as that star, and whose love is deep as the sea and as definite as its tides; who lives to higher ends than those we strive for; whose whole life, indeed, gives one the idea that it is the shadow—imperfect, perhaps, but still the shadow—of an immortal light: then you will get some idea of Angela Caresfoot. She is a woman intellectually, physically, and spiritually immeasurably above the man on whom she has set her affections.”
“That cannot be,” said Mildred, softly, “like draws to like; she must have found something in him, some better part, some affinity of which you know nothing.”
After this she fell into silence. Presently Lady Bellamy raised her eyes, just now filled up with the great pupils, and fixed them on Mildred.