“You are not going away?” exclaimed Lady Janet.
“I see no use in my remaining here,” replied Horace, not very graciously.
“In that case,” retorted Lady Janet, “remain here because I wish it.”
“Certainly—if you wish it. Only remember,” he added, more obstinately than ever, “that I differ entirely from Julian’s view. In my opinion the woman has no claim on us.”
A passing movement of irritation escaped Julian for the first time. “Don’t be hard, Horace,” he said, sharply. “All women have a claim on us.”
They had unconsciously gathered together, in the heat of the little debate, turning their backs on the library door. At the last words of the reproof administered by Julian to Horace, their attention was recalled to passing events by the slight noise produced by the opening and closing of the door. With one accord the three turned and looked in the direction from which the sounds had come.
CHAPTER XI. THE DEAD ALIVE.
JUST inside the door there appeared the figure of a small woman dressed in plain and poor black garments. She silently lifted her black net veil and disclosed a dull, pale, worn, weary face. The forehead was low and broad; the eyes were unusually far apart; the lower features were remarkably small and delicate. In health (as the consul at Mannheim had remarked) this woman must have possessed, if not absolute beauty, at least rare attractions peculiarly her own. As it was now, suffering—sullen, silent, self-contained suffering—had marred its beauty. Attention and even curiosity it might still rouse. Admiration or interest it could excite no longer.
The small, thin, black figure stood immovably inside the door. The dull, worn, white face looked silently at the three persons in the room.