'Yes, Mrs. Deroubigne,' replied Mary, in a low voice.
'You know my name!'
'I heard it mentioned incidentally, and the kindness of your manner made it dwell in my memory.'
'You look both pale and ill, my dear,' said the lady; 'come in, and let me give you a glass of wine—it will do you good.'
Mary thought of Lady Dunkeld, with whom she had last seen this lady, and, pausing, muttered her thanks, and accepted the invitation, but hesitatingly.
Little could she foresee that her whole future life hinged—if we may use the old parliamentary expression—upon that chance meeting with Mrs. Deroubigne!
The latter would not, we may be assured—for she was very aristocratic in her tastes and proclivities—have noticed an ordinary 'person,' young or old, employed to furnish music for any dance she had been at; but there was something so sweet and pathetic, as stated, in Mary's face and manner—more than all, something so perfectly ladylike in her bearing, that Mrs. Deroubigne felt attracted towards her.
Mary did not get the proffered wine a moment too late; so much was she overcome, mentally and bodily, by the bitter mortification to which she had that day been subjected, that the stately drawing-room in which she found herself seemed to be whirling round her.
'As you know my name, my dear,' said Mrs. Deroubigne, 'may I inquire yours?'
'Mary Wellwood.'