The result was a little startling.

Worm-eaten oak was flanked by mahogany veneer, brocade and tapestry were eked out with horse-hair and green rep, gules and azure from the stained-glass lozenge lattices were reflected in a hundred twinkling, dangling lusters; and you came upon lions rampant in a wilderness of wax-flowers.

What with antique heraldry and utilitarian furniture, you would have said there was no place there for anything so frivolously pretty as Mrs.Nevill Tyson; unless, indeed, her figure served to give the finishing touch to the ridiculous medley.
The sight of Thorneytoft would have taken the heart out of Mrs.Wilcox if anything could.

Mrs.Wilcox herself looked remarkably crisp and fresh and cheerful in her widow's dress.

Tyson rather liked Mrs.Wilcox than otherwise (perhaps because she was a little afraid of him and showed it); he noticed with relief that his mother-in-law was beginning to look almost like a lady, and he attributed this pleasing effect to the fact that she was now unable to commit any of her former atrocities of color.
He respected her, too, for wearing her weeds with an air of genial worldliness.