As he opened it, he turned and his eyes met Victoria's.
She wavered a moment under the passionate and haughty resentment they
seemed to express, no doubt a reflection of the reply to his letter sent
him by Harry that morning. Then the door shut and she was alone with
Melrose.
That gentleman leant back in his chair observing her. He wore the curious
cloaklike garment of thin black stuff, in which for some years past he
had been accustomed to dress when indoors; and the skullcap on his
silvery white hair gave added force to the still splendid head and
aquiline features. A kind of mocking satisfaction seemed to flicker
through the wrinkled face; and the general aspect of the man was still
formidable indeed. And yet it was the phantom of a man that she beheld.
He had paled to the diaphanous whiteness of the Catholic ascetic; his
hand shook upon his stick; the folds of the cloak barely concealed the
emaciation of his body. Victoria, gazing at him, seemed to perceive
strange intimations and presages, and, in the deep harsh eyes, a spirit
at bay.
She began quietly, bending forward:
"Mr. Melrose, I have come to speak to you on behalf of your wife."
"So I imagined. I should not allow any one else, Lady Tatham, to address
me on the subject."
"Thank you. I resolved--as you see--to appeal once more to our old--"
"Friendship?" he suggested.
"Yes--friendship," she repeated, slowly. "It might have been called
so--once."
"Long ago! So long ago that--I do not see how anything practical can come
of appealing to it," he said, pointedly.
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