Two of the windows looked on to the lawns, and the stone figures chipped by generations of catapult-owning boys; the other two looked across the river into the Hopetoun Woods.

The curtains were not drawn though the lamps were lit, for Mrs.Hope liked to keep the river and the woods with her as long as light lasted, so the warm bright room looked warmer and brighter in contrast with the cold, ruffled water and the wind-shaken trees outside.
Mrs.Hope had been a beautiful woman in her day, and was still an attractive figure, her white hair dressed high and crowned with a square of lace tied in quaint fashion under her chin.

Her black dress was soft and becoming to her spare figure.

There was nothing unsightly about her years; she made age seem a lovely, desirable thing.

Not that her years were so very many, but she had lived every minute of them; also she had given lavishly and unsparingly of her store of sympathy and energy to others: and she had suffered grievously.
She kissed Jean affectionately, upbraiding her for being long in coming, and turned eagerly to Pamela.