“Well, but is she really a lady?” inquired the astonished Miss Singleton, who, in her philosophy, had most assuredly never dreamt of such a possibility as Jack Goodwood.
“She is second daughter of Lord Oaks,” was the reply, “and Goodwood is one of _the_ Goodwoods, and is worth some £8000 a year; but here she is.”
As he spoke the lady in question joined the group. Her age might be eight or nine-and-thirty; she was tall and decidedly handsome, though her features were too large; she had magnificent black eyes and very white teeth, which prevented the width of her mouth from interfering with her pretensions to beauty; her complexion was brilliant in the extreme, nature having bestowed on her a clear brown skin, which withstood the combined effects of exposure to sun and wind, and softened the high colour induced by the boisterous character of her ladyship’s favourite pursuits. But if her personal gifts were striking, the style or costume she saw fit to adopt rendered her still more remarkable. As it will be necessary to describe her dress minutely in order to convey any idea of her appearance, we throw ourselves on the mercy of our lady readers, and beg them to pardon all errors of description, seeing that mantua-making is a science in which we have never graduated, and of which our knowledge is derived solely from oral traditions picked up during desultory conversations among our female friends, usually held (if our memory fail us not) on their way home from church.
Her dress consisted, then, of a gown of exceedingly rich white silk, made half-high in the body and remarkably full in the skirt, over which she wore a polka of bright scarlet Cashmere lined and trimmed with white silk, and adorned with a double row of the hunt buttons. Her head was attired in a Spanish hat of black velvet, while a single white feather, secured by a valuable diamond clasp, was allowed to droop over the brim and mingle with the rich masses of her raven hair, which was picturesquely arranged in a complication of braids and ringlets. She leaned on the arm of a gentleman double her age, whose good-humoured heavy face afforded a marked contrast to the ever-varying expression that lit the animated features of her who was, in every sense of the word, his better half. Leicester’s description had but slightly enhanced the vigour of her mode of salutation, for as she reached the spot where he stood she clapped him on the shoulder with a small, white-gloved hand, exclaiming in a deep but not unmusical voice--