oung eyes; they never
could be young eyes. The long accustomed woman of the world was mirrored
in them with her many experiences. They were beautiful in their way, but
their way had nothing to do with youth. And near the eyes, very near,
there were definite traces of maturity. A few, as yet very faint, lines
showed; and there were shadows; and there was--she could only call it
to herself "a slightly hollow look," which she had never observed in any
girl, or, so far as she remembered, in any young woman.

She gazed at her mouth and then at her throat. Both showed signs of age;
the throat especially, she thought. The lips were fine, finely curved,
voluptuous. But they were somehow not fresh lips. In some mysterious
way, which really she could not define, life had marked them as mature.
There were a couple of little furrows in the throat and there was also
a slightly "drawn" look on each side just below the line of the jaw. By
the temples also, close to the hair, there was something which did not
look young.

Lady Sellingworth felt very cold. At that moment she probably
exaggerated in her mind the effect of her appearance. She plunged down
into pessimism about herself. A sort of desperation came upon her.
Underneath all her conquering charm, hidden away like a trembling bird
under depths of green leaves, there was a secret diffidence of which she
had occasionally been conscious during her life. It had no doubt been
born with her, had lived in her as long as she had lived. Very few
people knew of its existence. But she knew, had known of it as long as
she remembered. Now that diffidence seemed to hold her with talons, to
press its beak into her heart.

She felt that she could not face the world with any assurance if she
lost her beauty. She had charm, cleverness, rank, position, money. She
knew all her advantages. But at that moment she seemed to be confronting
penury. And as she continued to look into the mirror ugliness seemed to
grow in the woman she saw like a spreading disease till she felt that
she would be frightened to show herself to anyone, and wished she could
hide from everyone who knew her.

That absurdly morbid fit passed, of course. It could not continue,
except in a woman who was physically ill, and Lady Sellingworth was
quite well. But it left its mark in her mind. From that day she began
to take intense trouble with herself. Hitherto she had been inclined
to trust her own beauty. She had relied on it a