Horace heard it also.

It was the rustling sound (traveling nearer and nearer over the library carpet) of a silken dress.
(In the interval while a coming event remains in a state of uncertainty, what is it the inevitable tendency of every Englishman under thirty to do?
His inevitable tendency is to ask somebody to bet on the event.
He can no more resist it than he can resist lifting his stick or his umbrella, in the absence of a gun, and pretending to shoot if a bird flies by him while he is out for a walk.) "What will your ladyship bet that this is not Grace ?" cried Horace.
Her ladyship took no notice of the proposal; her attention remained fixed on the library door.

The rustling sound stopped for a moment.

The door was softly pushed open.

The false Grace Roseberry entered the room.
Horace advanced to meet her, opened his lips to speak, and stopped--struck dumb by the change in his affianced wife since he had seen her last.