I don't know whether you remember Mrs.Archibald Fowler or not ?" she added as the skirt fitter sped in search of Gabriella; "this is her daughter-in-law.
Her husband ran away with another woman about three years ago.

It made a great sensation at the time, and his wife got a divorce from him afterwards.

Ever since then she has been in my establishment." No, Mrs.Pletheridge did not remember Mrs.Fowler; but, having had a notorious amount of trouble with her own husbands, she was amiably disposed toward the unfortunate daughter-in-law of the lady she couldn't remember.

Thirty years ago, as a pretty, vulgar, kind-hearted girl, she had captured with a glance the eldest son of the newly rich Pletheridge, who had, perhaps, inherited his grandfather's genial admiration for chambermaids; but, to-day, after a generation of self-indulgence, her prettiness had coarsened, her vulgarity had hardened, and her kind heart had withered, through lack of cultivation, to the size of a cherry.

And, from having had everything she wanted for so long, she had at last reached that melancholy state of mind when she could think of nothing more to want.
A brisk step crossed the room outside, the curtains were parted with a commanding movement, and Gabriella joined the anxious group surrounded by the four mirrors.
"Did you send for me, Madame ?" she asked, and waited, grave, attentive, and perfectly composed, with her hand, the small, strong hand of the Carrs, on the curtain.