lness to Miss
Jubb, and Sally to proceed, after getting a pair of black cotton gloves,
to the West End. In the shop, half hidden among the rolls of flannel and
little racks and trays of smaller articles of haberdashery, there was a
full-length strip of mirror. It stood gloomily in the half-light of the
shop, which, like all suburban drapers' shops, had the air of a crowded
and airless cavern full of stale adornments. Sally did not see the
mirror at first, but while the shop girl went to fetch the gloves, she
was looking idly round when she caught sight of a slim young lady in
black. The young lady was very trim, dressed all in black, with slim
ankles and pretty hands, and a big black hat--and it was herself!
Herself, looking like a lady. Quickly, she stepped to the mirror,
examining her cheeks, her neck, her brows, and her gloriously
richly-tinted hair. She was amazed and delighted. A proud smile twisted
her thin little lips, so slightly touched with Lipsol that they did not
seem to have been touched at all, but only to be prettier than usual.
After the first curiosity, the first flush of recognition, followed
precise scrutiny. Sally nodded to herself. She would do. There was no
doubt of it. From that moment she was no longer triumphant or excited:
she was sure. She had learnt a great lesson, that excitement is no
criterion of victory or happiness, and that the artist is cool,
confident, free from triumph. At a bound, Sally had become an artist.
She had always been potentially an artist; but she at last had attained
vision.

xiii

Precious pennies went to pay her tram fare to Tottenham Court Road; and
from there she walked to Madame Gala's, asking the way, and getting
rather flustered and bewildered at the pushing crowds and the big shops
with their irresistible windows, and the extraordinary amount of
traffic that seemed to make Oxford Street one continuous torrent of
carts and omnibuses. The big furniture shops in Tottenham Court Road had
impressed her; but the shops in Oxford Street were beyond anything she
ever remembered to have seen. A flash of comparison with Holloway--even
with Jones's magnificent row of shops on the way to Highbury, or the big
drapers and clothiers in the Upper Street--made her realise how right
had been her longing for the West End. It had been more than a dream. It
had been an inspiration. Holloway was seen in its dinginess, its greasy
mud on the rough roads, the general air it had of bei