Four years of wealth had not made much external alteration in Mrs.
Joseph Brownlow. As she descended the staircase of her beautiful
London house, one Monday morning, late in April, between flower-
stands filled with lovely ferns and graceful statues, she had still
the same eager girlish look. It was true that her little cap was of
the most costly lace, her hair manipulated by skilful hands, and her
thin black summer dress was of material and make such as a scientific
eye alone could have valued in their simplicity. But dignity still
was wanting. Silks and brocades that would stand alone, and velvets
richly piled only crushed and suffocated the little light swift
figure, and the crisp curly hair was so much too wilful for the maid,
that she had been even told that madame's style would be to cut it
short, and wear it a l'ingenue, which she viewed as insulting; and
altogether her general air was precisely what it had been when her
dress cost a twentieth part of what it did at present.
Her face looked no older. It was thin, eager, bright, and sunny, yet
with an indescribable wistfulness in the sparkling eyes, and
something worn in the expression, and, as usual, she moved with a
quiet nimbleness peculiar to herself.
The breakfast-table, sparkling with silver and glass, around a
magnificent orchid in the centre, and a rose by every plate, was
spread in the dining-room, sweet sounds and scents coming in through
the widely-opened glass doors of the conservatory, while a bright
wood fire, still pleasant to look at, shone in the grate.
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