"You like pale women," said I. "Now I like a woman who looks plain one
minute, and perfectly charming the next."
"That's what people say of Mrs. Carew. I know of lots who admire that
kind. The little girl for one."
"Gwendolen? Was she attracted to Mrs. Carew?"
"Attracted? I've seen her go to her from her mother's lap like a bird to
its nest. Many a time have I driven the carriage with Mrs. Ocumpaugh
sitting up straight inside, and her child curled up in this other
woman's arms with not a look or word for her mother."
"How did Mrs. Ocumpaugh seem to like that?" I asked between puffs of my
cigar.
"Oh, she's one of the cold ones, you know! At least you say so; but I
feel sure that for the last three years--that is, ever since this woman
came into the neighborhood--her heart has been slowly breaking. This
last blow will kill her."
I thought of the moaning cry of "Philo! Philo!" which at intervals I
still seemed to hear issue from that upper window in the great house,
and felt that there might be truth in his fears.
But it was of Mrs. Carew I had come to talk and not of Mrs. Ocumpaugh.
"Children's fancies are unaccountable," I sententiously remarked; "but
perhaps there is some excuse for this one. Mrs. Carew has what you call
magnetism--a personality which I should imagine would be very appealing
to a child. I never saw such expression in a human face. Whatever her
mood, she impresses each passing feeling upon you as the one reality of
her life. I can not understand such changes, but they are very
fascinating."
"Oh, they are easy enough to understand in her case. She was an actress
once. I myself have seen her on the stage--in London. I used to admire
her there."
"An actress!" I repeated, somewhat taken aback.
"Yes, I forget what name she played under. But she's a very great lady
now; in with all the swells and rich enough to own a yacht if she wanted
to."
"But a widow."
"Oh, yes, a widow."