"Yes, my lady."
There was a little tremor in Mrs. Weymore's low voice, and her blue eyes shifted and fell under Lady Thetford's steady and somewhat haughty gaze.
"Yet you look young—much younger than I imagined, or wished."
"I am twenty-seven years old, my lady."
That was my lady's own age precisely, but she looked half a dozen years the elder of the two.
"Are you a native of London?"
"No, my lady, of Berkshire."
"And you have been a widow, how long?"
What ailed Mrs. Weymore? She was all white and trembling—even her hands, folded and pressed together in her lap, shook in spite of her.
"Eight years and more."