Observing the lady, as she approached him, with the momentary curiosity of a stranger, he noticed that she still preserved the remains of beauty. She had also escaped the misfortune, common to persons at her time of life, of becoming too fat. Even to a man’s eye, her dressmaker appeared to have made the most of that favorable circumstance. Her figure had its defects concealed, and its remaining merits set off to advantage. At the same time she evidently held herself above the common deceptions by which some women seek to conceal their age. She wore her own gray hair; and her complexion bore the test of daylight. On entering the room, she made her apologies with some embarrassment. Being the embarrassment of a stranger (and not of a youthful stranger), it failed to impress Mr. Lismore favorably.
“I am afraid I have chosen an inconvenient time for my visit,” she began.
“I am at your service,” he answered a little stiffly; “especially if you will be so kind as to mention your business with me in few words.”
She was a woman of some spirit, and that reply roused her.
“I will mention it in one word,” she said smartly. “My business is—gratitude.”
He was completely at a loss to understand what she meant, and he said so plainly. Instead of explaining herself, she put a question.
“Do you remember the night of the eleventh of March, between five and six years since?”
He considered for a moment.
“No,” he said, “I don’t remember it. Excuse me, Mrs. Callender, I have affairs of my own to attend to which cause me some anxiety—”
“Let me assist your memory, Mr. Lismore; and I will leave you to your affairs. On the date that I have referred to, you were on your way to the railway-station at Bexmore, to catch the night express from the North to London.”