"But what became of Lady Mabel?" I asked; for I confess I was a little interested in this disjointed romance of long-past days.
"Did you ever know a thoroughly unfeeling person in your life that did not prosper?" was her ladyship's reply; and again her features writhed into the Mephistopheles' sneer. "Lady Mabel married an earl, and had sons and daughters, and lived to a green old age. I have seen a picture of her at fifty, and she was still 'fair and comely and buxom' as when she dazzled the old chaplain's eyes and broke Sir Montague's heart. Yes, yes, Kate, there's nothing like a _sensible_ woman; she's the evergreen in the garden, and blooms, and buds, and puts forth fresh shoots, when the rose is lying withered and trampled into the earth; but for all that, she has never had the charm of the rose, and never can have."
Such is a specimen of one of my many conversations with Lady Scapegrace, whom I liked more and more the better I knew her. But I have been anticipating sadly during my drive of Sir Guy's coach up Sir Guy's avenue. When I reached the front door, with all my recklessness, I felt glad to see no head poking out of windows--above all, no _female_ witness to my unwomanly conduct. I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself as I got down from the box; and I confess it was with feelings of intense relief that a polite groom of the chambers informed me, with many apologies, "her ladyship and all the ladies had gone to dress," and handed me over, with a courtly bow, to a tidy elderly woman, in a cap that could only belong to a housekeeper. She conducted me to my room, and consigned me to Gertrude, already hard at work unpacking upon her knees.
A very pretty little room it was; none of your enormous dreary state-apartments, dull as a theatre in the daytime, with a bed like a mourning coach, and corners of gloom and mystery, uncomfortable even at noon, and fatal to the nerves when seen by the light of a solitary wax-candle. On the contrary, it was quite the room for a young lady: pink hangings tinted one's complexion with that roseate bloom which the poet avers is as indispensable to woman as "man's imperial front"--whatever _that_ means--is to the male biped. A dark carpet with a rich border relieved the light-coloured paper, picked out sparingly with flowers; the toilet-table was covered with a blushing transparency of pink under white, like sunset on snow--perhaps I should rather say like a muslin dress over a satin slip; and there was a charming full-length glass, in which I could contemplate my whole person from top to toe, without slanting it an inch off the perpendicular. The lookout was into Lady Scapegrace's garden, a little _bijou_ of a place, that bore ample witness to the good taste of its mistress. Every shrub had been transplanted under her own eye, every border filled according to her personal directions. She tied her own carnations, and budded her own roses, like the most exemplary clergyman's wife in England. I do believe she _would_ have been a good wife to anybody but Sir Guy.