'Only my Lord Colambre, about a parcel I was bringing for him from
England, my lady--my Lady Isabel, my lord,' said Mrs. Petito. Whilst
Mrs. Petito was saying this, the entrance and retreat had been made,
and made with such dignity, grace, and modesty; with such innocence,
dove-like eyes had been raised upon him, fixed and withdrawn; with such
a gracious bend the Lady Isabel had bowed to him as she retired; with
such a smile, and with so soft a voice, had repeated 'Lord Colambre!'
that his lordship, though well aware that all this was mere acting,
could not help saying to himself as he left the house:
'It is a pity it is only acting. There is certainly something very
engaging in this woman. It is a pity she is an actress. And so young! A
much younger woman than I expected. A widow before most women are wives.
So young, surely she cannot be such a fiend as they described her
to be!' A few nights afterwards Lord Colambre was with some of his
acquaintance at the theatre, when Lady Isabel and her mother came
into the box, where seats had been reserved for them, and where their
appearance instantly made that sensation which is usually created by
the entrance of persons of the first notoriety in the fashionable world.
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