Before middle life, it is the outer woman who is
seen; after middle life, skilled as she may be by art and however
endowed my nature, yet the inner woman becomes visible to the least
discerning eye, and the thoughts and feelings which have dominated
her during all the past, are shown upon her face and form like
printed words upon the open leaves of a book. That is why so many
young beauties become ugly old ladies, and why plain faces sometimes
are beautiful in age.
The Baroness had been unremitting in the care of her person, and she
had by this toil saved her figure from becoming gross, retaining the
upright carriage and the tapering waist of youth, though she was upon
the verge of her sixtieth birthday. Her complexion, too, owing to
her careful diet, her hours of repose, and her knowledge of skin
foods and lotions, remained smooth, fair and unfurrowed. But the
long-guarded expression in her blue eyes of childlike innocence had
given place to the hard look of a selfish and unhappy nature, and the
lines about the small mouth accented the expression of the eyes.
It was, despite its preservation of Nature's gifts, and despite its
forced smiles, the face of a selfish, cruel pessimist, disappointed
in her past and with no uplifting faith to brighten the future.
The Baroness had been the wife of Judge Lawrence a number of years,
before she relinquished her hopes of one day making Preston Cheney
respond to the passion which burned unquenched in her breast.
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