An instant afterwards she entered the room with the priest. She was
dressed in a severely simple suit of grey, which set off to advantage her
slim, graceful figure. There seemed no reason why she should have been
called the little widow of Jansen, for she was not small, but she was
very finely and delicately made, and the name had been but an expression
of Jansen's paternal feeling for her. She had always had a good deal of
fresh colour, but to-day she seemed pale, though her eyes had a strange
disturbing light. It was not that they brightened on seeing this man
before her; they had been brighter, burningly bright, when she left the
hospital, where, since it had been built, she had been the one visitor of
authority--Jansen had given her that honour. She had a gift of smiling,
and she smiled now, but it came from grace of mind rather than from
humour. As Finden had said, "She was for ever acting, and never doin'
any harm by it."
Certainly she was doing no harm by it now; nevertheless, it was acting.
Could it be otherwise, with what was behind her life--a husband who had
ruined her youth, had committed homicide, had escaped capture, but who
had not subsequently died, as the world believed he had done, so
circumstantial was the evidence.
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