Editha, in her one passing glance, had instantly been attracted by the tall, queenly woman, who might perhaps have been about forty-two or three years of age.
Her face was fair, and sweet, and beautiful as a picture, and was surrounded by soft, waving chestnut hair.
Her eyes were large and blue, but rather mournful in expression, while there was a grieved droop about the full, handsome mouth.
Her companion was a middle-aged gentleman, though somewhat older than the lady, and, from their resemblance to each other, Editha judged them to be brother and sister.
“There goes a woman with a history, and a sad one, too,” Mr. Tressalia remarked, when they were beyond hearing.
Editha sighed and wondered how many women there were in the world who had sad histories, but she only said:
“They are acquaintances of yours, then?”
“Yes; the lady is called Madam Sylvester, though I have been told that it is not her real name, being her maiden name, resumed after some unpleasantness connected with an unfortunate marriage. I met her in Paris two winters ago, and I think I never saw a more charming woman of her age in my life.”
“She is certainly very pleasant to look at, though she shows that she has known sorrow of some kind,” Editha said, thoughtfully.
“Would you like to know her history—at least as much of it as I am able to tell you? It is quite interesting.”