He expected to see the same figure that he had seen on the railway
platform, the same gloomy drapery, the same quiet, almost deathlike
demeanor, nay, almost the same veil over her features; but the Lady
Ongar whom he now saw was as unlike that Lady Ongar as she was unlike
that Julia Brabazon whom he had known in old days at Clavering Park. She
was dressed, no doubt, in black; nay, no doubt, she was dressed in
weeds; but in spite of the black and in spite of the weeds there was
nothing about her of the weariness or of the solemnity of woe. He hardly
saw that her dress was made of crape, or that long white pendants were
hanging down from the cap which sat so prettily upon her head. But it
was her face at which he gazed. At first he thought she could hardly be
the same woman, she was to his eyes so much older than she had been! And
yet as he looked at her, he found that she was as handsome as ever--more
handsome than she had ever been before. There was a dignity about her
face and figure which became her well, and which she carried as though
she knew herself to be in very truth a countess. It was a face which
bore well such signs of age as those which had come upon it. She seemed
to be a woman fitter for womanhood than for girlhood. Her eyes were
brighter than of yore, and, as Harry thought, larger; and her high
forehead and noble stamp of countenance seemed fitted for the dress and
headgear which she wore.

"I have been expecting you," said she, stepping up to him. "Hermione
wrote me word that you were to come up on Monday. Why did you not come
sooner?" There was a smile on her face as she spoke, and a confidence in
her tone which almost confounded him.

"I have had so many things to do," said he lamely.