When the countess entered the drawing-room Lizzie rose upon her legs, but
did not come forward from her chair. The old woman was not tall; but her
face was long, and at the same time large, square at the chin and square
at the forehead, and gave her almost an appearance of height. Her nose was
very prominent, not beaked, but straight and strong, and broad at the
bridge, and of a dark-red colour. Her eyes were sharp and grey. Her mouth
was large, and over it there was almost beard enough for a young man's
moustache. Her chin was firm, and large, and solid. Her hair was still
brown, and was only just grizzled in parts. Nothing becomes an old woman
like gray hair, but Lady Linlithgow's hair would never be gray. Her
appearance, on the whole, was not prepossessing, but it gave one an idea
of honest, real strength. What one saw was not buckram, whalebone, paint,
and false hair. It was all human--hardly feminine, certainly not angelic,
with perhaps a hint in the other direction--but a human body, and not a
thing of pads and patches. Lizzie, as she saw her aunt, made up her mind
for the combat. Who is there that has lived to be a man or woman, and has
not experienced a moment in which a combat has impended, and a call for
such sudden courage has been necessary? Alas! sometimes the combat comes,
and the courage is not there. Lady Eustace was not at her ease as she saw
her aunt enter the room. "Oh, come ye in peace, or come ye in war?" she
would have said had she dared. Her aunt had sent up her love, if the
message had been delivered aright; but what of love could there be between
those two? The countess dashed at once to the matter in hand, making no
allusion to Lizzie's ungrateful conduct to herself. "Lizzie," she said,
"I've been asked to come to you by Mr. Camperdown. I'll sit down, if you
please."

"Oh, certainly, Aunt Penelope. Mr. Camperdown!"