dropped behind, "I think you are a little like my mother. Petrarch says so too, and Petrarch is a physiognomist."
"Nonsense," cried Olivia, neverthless coloring with pleasure. "Your mother was one of the most beautiful women in the world, and most commanding in her beauty. I don't know anybody at all like her."
They were now near the house, and looking up, Pembroke saw Madame Koller and the bundle of wrappings she called mamma descending from the carriage. A little unpleasant shock came upon him. The ladies from The Beeches were out of harmony just then.
Nevertheless they were very cordially greeted. Although the day was spring-like, Madame Koller's gown was trimmed with fur, and she cowered close to the fire in the big, draughty drawing room. Pembroke fancied that Madame Schmidt's fondness for wrappings would eventually descend to her daughter. But Madame Koller was very handsome. The quiet winter, the country air had made her much younger and fresher. And then, most women are much better looking when they are in love. They live in a perpetual agitation, which gives a strange brightness to the eye, a softness to the smile. They are impelled toward their natural rôle, which is acting. Madame Koller had the benefit of all this.
The luncheon passed off very well. In the house was that queer mixture of shabbiness and splendor
