It was at eleven in the morning, and, when admitted to the flat in Victoria Street which was his relative's abode, he had to wait a quarter of an hour for the lady's appearance.
Luxurious fashion, as might have been expected, distinguished Mrs.
Luke's drawing-room.

Costly and beautiful things superabounded; perfume soothed the air.

Only since her bereavement had Mrs.Widdowson been able to indulge this taste for modern exuberance in domestic adornment.
The deceased Luke was a plain man of business, who clung to the fashions which had been familiar to him in his youth; his second wife found a suburban house already furnished, and her influence with him could not prevail to banish the horrors amid which he chose to live: chairs in maroon rep, Brussels carpets of red roses on a green ground, horse-hair sofas of the most uncomfortable shape ever designed, antimacassars everywhere, chimney ornaments of cut glass trembling in sympathy with the kindred chandeliers.

She belonged to an obscure branch of a house that culminated in an obscure baronetcy; penniless and ambitious, she had to thank her imposing physique for rescue at a perilous age, and though despising Mr.Luke Widdowson for his plebeian tastes, she shrewdly retained the good-will of a husband who seemed no candidate for length of years.

The money-maker died much sooner than she could reasonably have hoped, and left her an income of four thousand pounds.