nge of circumstances which had tacitly taken place.
The Contessa said not a word of terminating her visit. The departure of
Lady Randolph apparently suggested nothing to her. She could scarcely
have filled up the foreground more entirely than she did before--but she
was now uncriticised, unremarked upon. There seemed even to be no
appropriation of more than her due, for it was very natural that a
person of experience and powers of conversation like hers should take
the leading place, and simple Lucy, so much younger and with so much
less acquaintance with the world, fall into the background. And
accordingly this was what happened. Madame di Forno-Populo knew
everybody. She had a hundred mutual acquaintances to tell Sir Tom about,
and they seemed to have an old habit of intercourse, which by this time
had been fully resumed. The evenings were the time when this was most
apparent. Then the Contessa was at her brightest. She had managed to
introduce shades upon all the lamps, so as to diffuse round her a
softened artificial illumination such as is favourable to beauty that
has passed its prime: and in this ruddy gloom she sat half seen, Sir Tom
sometimes standing by her, sometimes permitted to take the other corner
of her sofa--and talked to him, sometimes sinking her voice low as her
reminiscences took some special vein, sometimes calling sweetly to her
pretty Lucy to listen to this or that. These extensions of confidence,
generally, were brought in to make up for a long stretch of more private
communications, and the aspect of the little domestic circle was on such
occasions curious enough. By the table, in a low chair, with the full
light of the lamp upon her, sat Lucy, generally with some work in her
hands; she did not read or write (exercises to which, to tell the truth,
she was not much addicted) out of politeness, lest she should seem to be
withdrawing her attention from her guest, but sat there with her slight
occupation, so as to be open to any appeal, and ready if she were
wanted. On the other side of the table, the light making a sort of
screen and division between them, sat Bice, generally with a book before
her, which, as has been said, did not at all interfere with her power of
giving a vivid attention to what was going on around her. These two said
nothing to each other, and were often silent for the whole evening, like
pieces of still life. Bice sat with her book upon the table, so that
only the open page and