She walked through the walls. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. It’s your first evening, and early impressions do count for so much. If this idiotic marriage is binding then I will be her friend. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. He had the same dark eyes, though lighted by a fierce flame; the same sallow complexion; the same tall, thin figure, and majestic demeanour; the same proud cast of features. When first brought under consideration, she was a miserable and forlorn object; squalid in attire, haggard in looks, and emaciated in frame. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. ‘This is not love, Marthe. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things.
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