To the
footman who opened the hall door, and who stared in surprise, he
explained his emotion thus.
"Poor lady," he said. "It's a hopeless case."
"Ah!" said the man, who was the pale footman Lady Holme had sent with the
latch-key to Leo Ulford.
"Hopeless. It's a hard thing to have to tell a lady she'll always
be--be--"
"What, sir?" said the footman.
"Well--what people won't enjoy looking at."
He winked his eyes. He was a little bald man, with a hatchet face that
did not suggest emotion.
"And judging by part of the left side of the face, I guess she must have
been almost a beauty once," he added, stepping into the square.
That was Lady Holme now. She had to realise herself as a woman whom
people would rather not look at.
All this time she had not seen Fritz. He had asked to see her. He had
even tried to insist on seeing her, but so long as there was any hope in
her of recovering her lost beauty she had refused to let him come near
her. The thought of his eyes staring upon the tragic change in her face
sent cold creeping through her veins. But when the American had gone she
realised that there was nothing to wait for, that if she were ever to let
Fritz see her again it had better be now. The bandages in which her face
had been swathed had been removed. She went to a mirror and, setting her
teeth and clenching her hands, looked into it steadily.
She did not recognise herself.
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