"Where, my dear?" I asked.

"In the shop there," he answered.

"Is it your mother's shop?"

"Yes."

I said no more, but accompanied him. Of course my expectation of
seeing an old woman behind the counter had vanished, but I was not
in the least prepared for the kind of woman I did see.

The place was half a shop and half a kitchen. A yard or so of
counter stretched inwards from the door, just as a hint to those who
might be intrusively inclined. Beyond this, by the chimney-corner,
sat the mother, who rose as we entered. She was certainly one--I do
not say of the most beautiful, but, until I have time to explain
further--of the most remarkable women I had ever seen. Her face was
absolutely white--no, pale cream-colour--except her lips and a spot
upon each cheek, which glowed with a deep carmine. You would have
said she had been painting, and painting very inartistically, so
little was the red shaded into the surrounding white. Now this was
certainly not beautiful. Indeed, it occasioned a strange feeling,
almost of terror, at first, for she reminded one of the spectre
woman in the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner." But when I got used to
her complexion, I saw that the form of her features was quite
beautiful. She might indeed have been LOVELY but for a certain
hardness which showed through the beauty. This might have been the
result of ill health, ill-endured; but I doubted it. For there was a