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Updated: May 15, 2025
Following her custom, she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in prune-coloured velvet, which suggested dignity, and very beautiful antique Spanish lace, which symbolized the long endurance of things apparently too delicate, subtle, and trifling for the assaults of time.
But within, the bright wood-fire threw a pleasant glow over the simple room, and the figures of the two ladies. Mary's trim jacket and skirt of prune-coloured serge, with its white blouse fitting daintily to throat and wrist, seemed by its neatness to emphasize the rebellious masses and the fare colour of her hair.
Now and again he glanced at his unfinished copy of the beautiful portrait of Andrea del Sarto, and once his eyes rested on another copy next to his, better and truer than his, and once he stopped to pick up a girl's prune-coloured tie, which had fallen from the neighbouring easel.
But we felt happy together. I knew she was as glad to forgive as I was to be forgiven. In a little while she led me, blinking, into the light. A tall stranger, a lady in prune-coloured silk, sat in the high-backed chair. "This is my eldest girl, Aunt Cordelia," said my mother.
It was a good get-up, at once fashionable and individual. Ursula, in dark blue, was more ordinary, though she also looked well. Hermione herself wore a dress of prune-coloured silk, with coral beads and coral coloured stockings. But her dress was both shabby and soiled, even rather dirty. 'You would like to see your rooms now, wouldn't you! Yes. We will go up now, shall we?
Mrs. Bridgeman was now completely surrounded by a heterogeneous mass of very remarkable-looking people, among whom were peculiarly prominent an enormously broad-shouldered man, with Roman features and his hair cut over his brow in a royal fringe, a small woman with a pointed red nose in bead bracelets and prune-coloured muslin, and an elderly female with short grizzled hair, who wore a college gown and a mortar-board with a scarlet tassel, and who carried in one hand a large skull marked out in squares with red ink.
"Her father was a count," he said. "Besides, my darling, I don't believe she can read English; certainly not unless it is printed." So there the matter rested, and the moment of parting came. There was a murmur of respectful sympathy as Mrs. Greyne clasped her husband tenderly in her arms, and pressed his head against her prune-coloured bonnet strings. The whistle sounded. The train moved on.
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