Mr. Wickham. There was a certain cynicism about her insincerity which
his, somehow, lacked. Even now, they wore their rue with a difference.

Mrs. Wickham's mourning was as correct and elegant as a fashionable
dressmaker could make it; the very latest thing in grief. Mr. Wickham
was far less sumptuous. Beyond the customary band on his hat and a pair
of black gloves conspicuously new, he had apparently made little
expenditure on his costume. As Nora entered, Mrs. Wickham was pulling
off her gloves.

"How do yon do?" she said carelessly. "Ouf! Do put the blinds up, Miss
Marsh. Really, we needn't be depressed any more. Jim, if you love me,
take those gloves off. They're perfectly revolting."

"Why, what's wrong with them! The fellow in the shop told me they were
the right thing."

"No doubt; I never saw anyone look quite so funereal as you do."

"Well," retorted her husband, "you didn't want me to get myself up as if
I were going to a wedding, did you?"

"Were there many people?" said Nora hastily.

The insolence of Mrs. Wickham's glance was scarcely veiled.

"Oh, quite a lot," she drawled. "The sort of people who indulge in other
peoples' funerals as a mild form of dissipation."

"I hope Wynne will look sharp," said her husband hastily, looking at his