It was the first evening in her life she had ever dressed without some heavy burden of care.

Her self-protective, watchful instincts could rest for a while; these new relations were truly, not only seemingly, so kind.

The only person she immediately and instinctively disliked was Lady Highford who had gushed and said one or two bitter-sweet things which she had not clearly nor literally understood, but which, she felt, were meant to be hostile.
And her husband, Tristram! It was plain to be seen every one loved him--from the old Duke, to the old setter by the fire.

And how was it possible for them all to love a man, when--and then her thoughts unconsciously turned to _if_--he were capable of so base a thing as his marriage with her had been?
Was it possible there could be any mistake?
On the first opportunity she would question her uncle; and although she knew that gentleman would only tell her exactly as much as he wished her to know, that much would be the truth.
Dinner was to be at half-past eight.

She ought to be punctual, she knew; but it was all so wonderful, and refined, and old-world, in her charming room, she felt inclined to dawdle and look around.
It was a room as big as her mother's had been, in the gloomy castle near Prague, but it was full of cozy touches--beyond the great gilt state bed, which she admired immensely--and with which she instinctively felt only the English--and only such English--know how to endow their apartments.
Then she roused herself.