She knew her instantly for the woman who had saved her life at the time of that frightful railroad disaster eight years previously; who had nursed her so faithfully during the illness that followed, and who had afterward told her, “I am the woman whom your brother loved—whom he wooed and won.”
A deadly pallor overspread her countenance, while her customary elegant self-possession was utterly routed. She was actually stricken dumb—her lips refused to pronounce the name she had heard, in acknowledgment of the introduction; she could only stand still with her eyes fastened in a blank, startled stare upon that graceful figure, while her heart sank a dead weight in her bosom.
Instinctively Lady Linton knew why Mrs. Alexander was there in London. She had come to fulfill the threat that she had uttered so long ago, and a terrible despair settled down upon the finished woman of the world, rendering her speechless, constrained, embarrassed.
Mrs. Alexander, however, was entirely at her ease. She had expected to meet this woman in society at some time or other, and was prepared for the encounter.
She bowed with exceeding grace, but with a suspicion of ironical politeness, while she remarked in cool, placid tones:
“I have had the pleasure of meeting Lady Linton before.”
The sound of her voice broke the spell that held her ladyship enthralled; she managed to bow and to murmur some inarticulate words in return, then Lady Dunforth passed on with her guest, wondering if Lady Linton was ill, that she should appear so unlike herself.
CHAPTER XVI.
MORE INTRODUCTIONS.
Meanwhile another spiritual episode was transpiring in a different portion of Lady Dunforth’s drawing-room.
Lillian Linton, brilliantly beautiful in pale pink silk, with elegant ornaments of opals, was entertaining a group of young people, while merry jest and sparkling repartee ran from lip to lip, when, chancing to glance toward the door, she saw Rupert Hamilton coming forward with a girl of bewildering loveliness leaning on his arm.