Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay.
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