Everything bespoke the presence of a neat, brisk, and tidy female resident of elegant tastes; but in one corner I detected a cavalry forage cap, pretty well worn, and on the end of the mantelpiece, where it had evidently eluded Mrs. Goldsworthy's duster, the fag-end of a cigar.
I had just made this alarming discovery, when my friend of the last evening entered, and frankly presented me with her hand, half-smiling, and thanking me for the locket, which she at once proceeded to suspend at her neck, saying, as she kissed and hid it in her bosom, that for worlds she would not have lost it!
Ungloved now, I could perceive the delicate beauty of her small hands, and, moreover, that on the third finger of the left there was no marriage ring. Her face was very pale, but singularly beautiful, and her tightly-fitting dress revealed the full symmetry of her arms, waist, and bosom. Her eyes expressed extreme gentleness and sadness, and consorted well with the delicacy of her pure complexion. The extreme redness of her lips seemed rather unnatural, or at least unhealthy; but she coughed frequently, and the consumption, under which I greatly feared she was labouring, made her delicate loveliness still more alluring, and the earnest and searching gaze of her dark blue eyes more interesting and touching.
The common phrases incident to first introductions and everyday conversations were rapidly despatched, and, while I lingered, hat and whip in hand, I repeated that, but for the purpose of returning her locket, I, as a total stranger, would not have ventured to intrude upon a lady. I begged her to be assured of that.
"Be certain, sir," said she, nervously smoothing the braids of her rich, thick hair, and adjusting the neat white collar that encircled her delicate throat, and edged the neck of her plain grey dress; "be certain that it is no intrusion, but a great kindness, though I do live here almost alone, and—and——"
She paused, and coloured deeply.
"You were anxious about letters last night. I hope this morning has relieved your mind?"
"Alas, no, sir," said she, shaking her pretty head sadly. "The postman has always letters for every one but me. I have been forgotten by those who should have remembered me."
"I can fully share your feelings," said I, with a made-up smile. "I, too, am most anxious for letters that seem never likely to come."
"I am sorry to hear this; but I thought that you gay young men of the world had no sorrows—no troubles, save your debts, and your occasional headaches in the morning; the first to be cured by post-obits, and the second by brandy and seltzer-water."