Old Stuart had glanced up sharply, I am inclined to think almost fearfully, into my face. “You—you haven’t got it?” he said. Shaphambury—I should remember that. “You don’t think you got it?” he said. I handed the envelope back to him. “For a moment I thought it might be Hampton,” I said. “Hampton,” he repeated. “Hampton. How could you make Hampton?” He turned the envelope about. “H.A.M.—why, Willie, you’re a worse hand at the job than me!” He replaced the letter in the envelope and stood erect to put this back in his breast pocket. I did not mean to take any risks in this affair. I drew a stump of pencil from my waistcoat pocket, turned a little away from him and wrote “Shaphambury” very quickly on my frayed and rather grimy shirt cuff. “Well,” said I, with an air of having done nothing remarkable. I turned to him with some unimportant observation—I have forgotten what. I never finished whatever vague remark I commenced. I looked up to see a third person waiting at the greenhouse door. § 7 It was old Mrs. Verrall. I wonder if I can convey the effect of her to you. She was a little old lady with extraordinarily flaxen hair, her weak aquiline features were pursed up into an assumption of dignity, and she was richly dressed. I would like to underline that “richly dressed,” or have the words printed in florid old English or Gothic lettering. No one on earth is now quite so richly dressed as she was, no one old or young indulges in so quiet and yet so profound a sumptuosity. But you must not imagine any extravagance of outline or any beauty or richness of color. The predominant colors were black and fur browns, and the effect of richness was due entirely to the extreme costliness of the materials employed. She affected silk brocades with rich and elaborate patterns, priceless black lace over creamy or purple satin, intricate trimmings through which threads and bands of velvet wriggled, and in the winter rare furs. Her gloves fitted exquisitely, and ostentatiously simple chains of fine gold and pearls, and a great number of bracelets, laced about her little person. One was forced to feel that the slightest article she wore cost more than all the wardrobe of a dozen girls like Nettie; her bonnet affected the simplicity that is beyond rubies. Richness, that is the first quality about this old lady that I would like to convey to you, and the second was cleanliness. You felt that old Mrs. Verrall was exquisitely clean. If you had boiled my poor dear old mother in soda for a month you couldn’t have got her so clean as Mrs. Verrall constantly and manifestly was. And pervading all her presence shone her third great quality, her manifest confidence in the respectful subordination of the world. She was pale and a little out of breath that day, but without any loss of her ultimate confidence, and it was clear to me that she had come to interview Stuart upon the outbreak of passion that had bridged the gulf between their families.