Since she spent her life in keeping other people waiting, it naturally fretted her to discover unpunctuality in others.
Her portrait, by Raeburn, which now adorns the National Gallery, had been painted in the previous year.

You will have seen it, or at least you will have seen one of its numerous replicas, and you will have remarked its singular, delicate, rose-petal loveliness--the gleaming golden head, the flawless outline of face and feature, the immaculate skin, the dark blue eyes with their look of innocence awakening.
Thus was she now in her artfully simple gown of flowered muslin with its white fichu folded across her neck that was but a shade less white; thus was she, just as Raeburn had painted her, saving, of course, that her expression, matching her words, was petulant.
"I was detained by the arrival of a mail-bag from Vizeu," Sir Terence excused himself, as he took the chair which Mullins, the elderly, pontifical butler, drew out for him.

"Ned is attending to it, and will be kept for a few moments yet." Lady O'Moy's expression quickened.

"Are there no letters for me ?" "None, my dear, I believe." "No word from Dick ?" Again there was that note of ever ready petulance.
"It is too provoking.

He should know that he must make me anxious by his silence.