By this time Sir Jekyl was poking up the fire and frowning down on the bars, with the flickering glare shooting over his face.
"Can the old woman have anything to do with it? Pooh! no. I'd like to see her. But who knows what sort of a temper she's in?"
As he thus ruminated, the domestic with the old-fashioned livery and floured head returned to say that his mistress would be happy to see him.
The servant conducted him up a broad stair with a great oak banister, and opening a drawing-room door, announced—
"Sir Jekyl Marlowe."
He was instantly in the room, and a tall, thin old lady, with a sad and stately mien, rose up to greet him.
"How is little mamma?" cried the Baronet, with his old chuckle. "An age since we met, hey? How well you look!"
The old lady gave her thin mittened hand to her son-in-law, and looked a grim and dubious sort of welcome upon him.
"Yes, Jekyl, an age; and only that Beatrix is here, I suppose another age would have passed without my seeing you. And an old woman at my years has not many ages between her and the grave."
The old lady spoke not playfully, but sternly, like one who had suffered long and horribly, and who associated her sufferings with her visitor; and in her oblique glance was something of deep-seated antipathy.