By way of a commencement, Miss Broad was conscious of two things--that Miss Bewicke was looking her best; that she herself was looking her worst; at least, she was nearly certain she was looking her worst, she felt so hideous.
Miss Bewicke had a knack of walking--it came by nature, though there were those who called it a trick--which gave her a curious, and, indeed, humorous, air of importance altogether beyond anything her stature seemed to warrant. This enabled her to overwhelm men, and even women who were much taller than herself, with a grace which was positively charming. She moved across that spacious hall, looking straight at Miss Broad, as if there was nothing there; and was walking past with an apparent unconsciousness of there being anyone within a mile, though she brushed against the other's skirts as she passed, which was a little more than Miss Broad could endure. She was not going all the way to Brighton to be treated by that woman as if she were a nonentity.
'Miss Bewicke!'
The lady, who had passed, turned.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Can I speak to you?'
'Speak to me?' She regarded the other with a smile which, if pretty, was impertinent. 'I'm afraid I haven't the pleasure.'
'I am Miss Broad.'
'Broad?--Broad? I don't seem to remember.'
'Perhaps you remember Mr Holland.'