advice. It's never too late to mend, Evelyn."

"Even at twenty-six?"

Aunt Emmeline surveyed me critically. She was taking stock, and
considering just how young, how old, how fresh, how damaged those
lengthy years had left my physical charms. I looked in a long glass
opposite, and took stock at the same time. A smart young woman--oh,
very smart indeed, for as Kathie had argued, if you can't "blow" expense
for your only sister's wedding, when on earth are you going to do it?
Light brown hair, "still untouched by grey," hazel eyes with very long,
very finely marked eyebrows (secretly they are the joy of my life!) good
features, and a sulky expression. The old Evelyn used to be very
good-looking--(she's dead now, so I can say so, as much as I like)--this
new one is good-looking too, in a disagreeable, unattractive kind of
way. If you saw her dining at the next table in an hotel you would say,
"Rather a fine-looking girl!" And the man with you would reply, "Think
so! Too much of a temper for my fancy. Glad she don't belong to me."
I realised as much as I looked in the glass, and that made me crosser
than ever. If I had been alone, able to cry, or storm, or grizzle, or
go to bed just as I liked, I could have borne it better; but fancy
losing your home, and your occupation, and the only person in all the
world you really loved, all in one day, and coming straight from the
wreck to have tea with Aunt Emmeline!

The sandwich was finished before the inspection. A piece of scone
followed.

"Of course," said Aunt Emmeline, "you are _not_ in your first bloom.
_That_ we can't expect. Your colour is a little harder and more fixed"
(the figure in the glass gave a spasmodic jerk. The sulky expression
was pierced by a gleam of fear. "_Fixed_!" Good gracious! She might
be talking of those old people who have little red lines over their
cheek-bones in the place of "bloom". It's _ridiculous_ to say I am
"fixed". It is a matter of indifference to me how I look, but I do
insist on truth!) "and your air of pride and independence is unbecoming
in an unmarried girl. Men like to see a girl sweet, clinging, pliant."

"What men?"

"_All_ men!"

"Oh! And in my case, for instance, to whom would you suggest I should
proceed to cling?"

"That," said Aunt Emmeline briskly, "is precisely what I wish to
discuss." She lifted the last morsel of scone from the plate, stared at
it, and popped it into her mouth. "My dear, has