than five years ago, in fact; but such an age gone by to him--when he
first met the woman for whom he had worn crape round his hat three days
before. They returned, all those old unforgotten feelings; they came
back, with the scene of their birth-place. Again he lounged with his
brother officers upon the shabby pier at the shabby watering-place,
listening to a dreary band with a cornet that was a note and a half
flat. Again he heard the old operatic airs, and again _she_ came
tripping toward him, leaning on her old father's arm, and pretending
(with such a charming, delicious, serio-comic pretense) to be listening
to the music, and quite unaware of the admiration of half a dozen
open-mouthed cavalry officers. Again the old fancy came back that she
was something too beautiful for earth, or earthly uses, and that to
approach her was to walk in a higher atmosphere and to breathe a purer
air. And since this she had been his wife, and the mother of his child.
She lay in the little churchyard at Ventnor, and only a year ago he had
given the order for her tombstone. A few slow, silent tears dropped upon
his waistcoat as he thought of these things in the quiet and darkening
room.

Lady Audley was so exhausted when she reached home, that she excused
herself from the dinner-table, and retired at once to her dressing-room,
attended by her maid, Phoebe Marks.

She was a little capricious in her conduct to this maid--sometimes very
confidential, sometimes rather reserved; but she was a liberal mistress,
and the girl had every reason to be satisfied with her situation.

This evening, in spite of her fatigue, she was in extremely high
spirits, and gave an animated account of the races, and the company
present at them.