At this reply she coloured for a moment, and thought, 'We have here an independent and conceited young man, who must be kept at his proper distance.' But she only caressed Fifine, an odious little pug dog, which she carried under her arm.
And avoiding all family matters, which, sooth to say, Roland disdained to discuss with her, even his father's death, more than all the alleged terms of the odious will and similar subjects, they talked the merest commonplaces—of the weather, the crops, the country, and of the war in Egypt—but all in a jerky and unconnected fashion, as each felt that a moment might land them on that dangerous ground which was inevitably to be traversed yet.
'And Maude?' said Roland during a pause; 'she must be quite a grown-up young lady now.'
'Yes, she is close on twenty; but I do not see much of Maude.'
'Why?'
'She stays away from Earlshaugh as much as she can, with friends in Edinburgh, London, and elsewhere.'
While closely observing his stepmother, Roland was compelled to admit to himself that she was ladylike. In her fortieth year, her hair was fair and thick; her stature good; her hands well-shaped and white, but somewhat large.
Her face was perfectly colourless; her eyes small, glittering, of the palest gray, planted near a thin and aquiline nose; her lips were also thin, not ill-tempered, but like her whole expression—hard. Her teeth were small and sharp-looking; her face lineless—she looked ten years younger than she was, and was beautifully, even tastefully, dressed.
She wore now, as she always did, a handsome-trimmed black costume of the richest material, with a white cap of fine lace, slightly trimmed with black, as a sign of widowhood, and jet ornaments, with a few pearls among them.
'I do so long to see my dear little Maude!' exclaimed Roland.