After the first happiness of my
meeting with Laura was over, after we had sat down together hand
in hand to recover breath enough and calmness enough to talk, I
felt this strangeness instantly, and I could see that she felt it
too. It has partially worn away, now that we have fallen back
into most of our old habits, and it will probably disappear before
long. But it has certainly had an influence over the first
impressions that I have formed of her, now that we are living
together again--for which reason only I have thought fit to
mention it here.
She has found me unaltered, but I have found her changed.
Changed in person, and in one respect changed in character. I
cannot absolutely say that she is less beautiful than she used to
be--I can only say that she is less beautiful to me.
Others, who do not look at her with my eyes and my recollections,
would probably think her improved. There is more colour and more
decision and roundness of outline in her face than there used to
be, and her figure seems more firmly set and more sure and easy in
all its movements than it was in her maiden days. But I miss
something when I look at her--something that once belonged to the
happy, innocent life of Laura Fairlie, and that I cannot find in
Lady Glyde.
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