CHAPTER XXXI.
Mr. Glentworth contrived to arrive in the evening at the house of Dr. Parizzi, where the little metamorphose of Isabella was soon effected; that of her husband was more difficult. But, as Count Riccardini had been obliged to go to his own seat, and the marchese had never seen him, it was less material; at this time, he was looking in the eyes of the doctor so much altered for the worse, many old friends might see, yet not recognize in him, the once-admired Englishman.
Poor Isabella had formed such an exalted idea of the beauty and accomplishments of her cousin, from the description her husband had given, that partly from fear of her, and partly from consciousness of deception, it was with the utmost difficulty she could allow herself to be presented. This once over, she became forgetful of all that was unpleasant in her situation. She could not fear the rivalship of beauty in the pale, sharp features of the invalid before her, nor could she doubt the perfect kindness and goodwill of one who took the opportunity of the first moment they were alone, to draw her closely to her heart, call her her "dear, dear cousin, the beloved of her own beloved, in days that were gone for ever."
