She was assured that the charges were true, and that the battered rake who shivered over the fire had neither courage nor ability to face his accusers.

She saw the whole fabric of her life in ruins, her son the penniless successor to a tarnished name.
There was silence for some minutes.

Lady Maulevrier sat with lowered eyelids looking at the fire, deep in painful thought.

Two perpendicular wrinkles upon her broad white forehead--so calm, so unclouded in society--told of gnawing cares.

Then she stole a look at her husband, as he reclined in his arm-chair, his head lying back against the cushions in listless repose, his eyes looking vacantly at the window, whence he could see only the rain-blurred fronts of opposite houses, blank, dull windows, grey slated roofs, against a leaden sky.
He had been a handsome man, and he was handsome still, albeit premature decay, the result of an evil life, was distinctly marked in his faded face.