The story being told, he renews his stately protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a subject so far removed from my Lady's station.
"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the kindness, Mr.Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me." Mr.Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she passes out.

She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner and insolent grace.

They meet again at dinner--again, next day--again, for many days in succession.

Lady Dedlock is always the same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine.

Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble confidences, so oddly but of place and yet so perfectly at home.