"So this is your wife, Edmund," said Lady Tatham, as she rose.
"It is. You'll make mock of her no doubt--as you do of me."
"Nonsense! I never make mock of anybody," said a musical voice, rich
however through all its music in a rather formidable significance. The
owner of it turned toward Netta.
"I hope, Mrs. Melrose, that you will like Cumbria?"
Netta, accustomed to Edmund's "queerness," and determined to hold her
own, settled herself deliberately opposite her visitor, and was soon
complaining in her shrill voice of the loneliness of the place and the
damp of the climate. Melrose never once looked at his wife. He was
paler than usual, with an eager combative aspect, quite new to Netta. He
seemed for once to be unsure of his ground--both to expect attack, even
to provoke it--and to shrink from it. His eyes were fixed upon Lady
Tatham, and followed her every movement.
Attention was certainly that lady's due; and it failed her rarely. She
had beauty--great beauty; and a personality that refused to be
overlooked. Her dress showed in equal measure contempt for mere fashion,
and a close study of effect. The lines of her long cloak of dull blue
cloth, with its garnishings of sable, matched her stately slenderness
well; and the close-fitting cap over the coiled hair conveyed the same
impression of something perfectly contrived and wholly successful.
Netta thought at first that she was "made up," so dazzling was the
white and pink, and then doubted.
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