person, you know, but quiet, and great force of character. Came up to London on her own and came to us—someone had told her we were the sort of people to advise her—to ask what to do. I'm sure she'll interest you.”
“What CAN people of that sort do?” I asked. “Is she capable of investigation?”
Altiora compressed her lips and shook her head. She always did shake her head when you asked that of anyone.
“Of course what she ought to do,” said Altiora, with her silk dress pulled back from her knee before the fire, and with a lift of her voice towards a chuckle at her daring way of putting things, “is to marry a member of Parliament and see he does his work.... Perhaps she will. It's a very exceptional gal who can do anything by herself—quite exceptional. The more serious they are—without being exceptional—the more we want them to marry.”
Her exposition was truncated by the entry of the type in question.
“Well!” cried Altiora turning, and with a high note of welcome, “HERE you are!”
Margaret had gained in dignity and prettiness by the lapse of five years, and she was now very beautifully and richly and simply dressed. Her fair hair had been done in some way that made it seem softer and more abundant than it was in my memory, and a gleam of purple velvet-set diamonds showed amidst its mist of little golden and brown lines. Her dress was of white and violet, the last trace of mourning for her mother, and confessed the gracious droop of her tall and slender body. She did not suggest Staffordshire at all, and I was puzzled for a moment to think where I had met her. Her sweetly shaped mouth with the slight obliquity of the lip and the little kink in her