It was not wonderful that this coarse mind found it difficult to understand the strange anomaly, for Margaret was one of those rarely beautiful beings who seem only made for the tenderest handling. Her face might have been a poet's ideal, for the traces of suffering and conflict it only too plainly revealed had removed it far from the meaningless glory of mere form and coloring; and yet she was too young perhaps for these to have bereft her of any charm; they rather endowed her pale fair beauty with a certain refinement, an appealing pathos, which spoke powerfully to the imagination. She possessed a form, too, whose every line was perfect, well developed, yet fragile--womanly, yet full of grace. And the deep crimson which Mrs. Brown's studied rudeness had called to her face heightened the effect of her beauty. She sat before her visitor, her eyes cast down, her hands crossed in her lap, like a fair Greek slave in the barbarian's market-place, waiting for the decree of fate. It was a relief when Mrs. Augustus Brown began to give her attention to the ponderous carriage-bag in her hand. Some of its fastenings, being the latest patents and the height of convenience, were difficult to manage. "Your name," she said, hunting for a letter--"ah, here it is!--_Mrs._ Grey." Margaret bowed, shivering slightly. That fatal emphasis. This was the way in which the inquisitions generally began. Mrs. Augustus here coughed slightly, and looked over her gold-rimmed spectacles in a way intended to be severe. Alas! how we deceive ourselves! The look was only comic. "A married woman, I presume?" Margaret bowed again. Here Mrs. Brown consulted a set of ivory tablets: "With one little girl, I am told, and small income, anxious to make enough for her education. Is this correct?" "Perfectly so, madam." "A very laudable object: then, Mrs. Grey, you are, I presume, a widow?" There was a moment's hesitation. Margaret pressed her hand to her side as if she were in pain, and Mrs. Augustus eyed her suspiciously: "My question, Mrs. Grey, is a simple one." "And my answer, madam, can be equally simple. I am _not_ a widow." "_Not_ a widow!" Mrs. Brown drew back her chair and took another long look--one that expressed incredulous horror. "Not a widow! And pray, Mrs. Grey, where is your husband?" In spite of herself, Margaret smiled feebly, but the smile was a nervous one. She looked up and shook her head: "I am sorry to say, madam, that I cannot tell." "Then," and Mrs. Brown again receded, as if to put as much space as possible between herself and this naughty person--"then, Mrs. Grey, you are separated from your husband?" "I am."