"
At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from
his menu and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard
his name spoken and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It
was apparent that when young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an
expression in her eyes of hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual,
she was still handsome. She was without a hat and wearing a house dress
of decorous shades and in the extreme of fashion. Her black hair, built
up in artificial waves, was heavy with brilliantine; her hands, covered
deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, showed the most fastidious
care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, free from paint and
powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be the
perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed.
"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you
please come this way?"
That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for, as
she spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the stairs.
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