er one shoulder;
then she looked over the other shoulder. As she did so, the curving
column of her white neck was a thing a painter might have desired to
look at, had he been able to take his eyes from the changeful sheen on
her glossy red hair. But there was no painter there, and Eliza was
looking at the gown. She walked to the end of the room, looking backward
over her shoulder. She walked up the room toward the mirror, observing
the moving folds of the skirt as she walked. She went aside, out of the
range of the glass, and came into it again to observe the effect of
meeting herself as though by chance, or rather, of meeting a young woman
habited in such a black silk gown, for it was not in herself precisely
that Eliza was at the moment interested. She did not smile at herself,
or meet her own eyes in the glass. She was gravely intent upon looking
as well as she could, not upon estimating how well she looked.

The examination was satisfactory. Perhaps a woman more habituated to
silk gowns and mantua-makers would have found small wrinkles in sleeve
or shoulder; but Eliza was pleased. If the gown was not perfect, it was
as good a one as she was in the habit of seeing, even upon gala
occasions. And she had no intention of keeping her gown for occasions;
her intention was that it should be associated with her in the ordinary
mind of the place. Now that she was fortunate enough to possess silk
(and she was determined this should only be the forerunner of a
succession of such gowns) people should think of her as Miss White, who
wore silk in the afternoons. She settled this as she saw how well the
material became her. Then, with grave care, she arranged a veil round
the black bonnet she wore, and stood putting on new gloves preparatory
to leaving the room. Eliza was not very imaginative; but had she been
disposed to foresee events, much as she might have harassed herself, she
would not have been more likely to hit upon the form to be taken by the
retributive fate she always vaguely feared than are the poor creatures
enslaved by fearful imaginations.

The door opened, and Harkness thrust his handsome head into the room. He
was evidently looking for her. When he saw her he came in hastily,
shutting the door and standing with his back to it, as if he did not
care to enter further.

Eliza had not seen him that day. After what had happened, she rather
dreaded the next interview, as she did not know what he might find to
say; b