The Baroness took no notice as she went up the stairs. She was not
very tall, and was growing slowly and surely stout, but she carried
her rather large head high and had cultivated importance, as a fine
art, with some success. She moved steadily, with a muffled sound as of
voluminous invisible silk bellows that opened and shut at each step;
her outer dress was sombre, but fashionable, and she wore a long gold
chain of curious and fine workmanship to carry her hand-glass, for she
was near-sighted. Her thick hair was iron-grey, her small round eyes
were vaguely dark with greenish lights, her complexion was like weak
coffee and milk, sallow, but smooth, even and healthy. She was a
strong woman of fifty years, well used to the world and its ways;
acquisitive, inquisitive and socially progressive; not knowing how to
wish back anything from the past, so long as there was anything in the
future to wish for; a good wife for an ambitious man.

The magnificent marble staircase already looked neglected; there were
deep shadows of dust in corners that should have been polished, there
was a coat of grey dust on the head and shoulders of the colossal
marble statue of Commodus in the niche on the first landing; in the
great window over the next, the armorial crowned eagle of the Conti,
cheeky, argent and sable, had a dejected look, as if he were moulting.

It was in March, and though the sun was shining brightly outside, and
the old porter wore his linen jacket, as if it were already spring,
there was a cold draught down the staircase, and the Baroness
instinctively made haste up the steps, and was glad when she reached
the big swinging door covered with red baize and studded with smart
brass nails, which gave access to the grand apartment.

By force of habit, she opened it and went in. There used to be always