l, the
face in the mirror--that was none of these; it was a face impossibly,
incredibly, outrageously beautiful.

Only her face and throat were visible, and the features were cool,
expressionless, and still as a carving. I wandered suddenly if she could
smile, and with the thought, she did. If she had been beautiful before,
now her beauty flamed to such a pitch that it was--well, insolent; it
was an affront to be so lovely; it was insulting. I felt a wild surge of
anger that the image before me should flaunt such beauty, and yet
be--_non-existent_! It was deception, cheating, fraud, a promise that
could never be fulfilled.

Anger died in the depths of that fascination. I wondered what the rest
of her was like, and instantly she moved gracefully back until her full
figure was visible. I must be a prude at heart, for she wasn't wearing
the usual cuirass-and-shorts of that year, but an iridescent
four-paneled costume that all but concealed her dainty knees. But her
form was slim and erect as a column of cigarette smoke in still air, and
I knew that she could dance like a fragment of mist on water. And with
that thought she did move, dropping in a low curtsy, and looking up with
the faintest possible flush crimsoning the curve of her throat. Yes, I
must be a prude at heart; despite Tips Alva and Whimsy White and the
rest, my ideal was modest.

It was unbelievable that the mirror was simply giving back my thoughts.
She seemed as real as myself, and--after all--I guess she was. As real
as myself, no more, no less, because she was part of my own mind. And at
this point I realized that van Manderpootz was shaking me and bellowing,
"Your time's up. Come out of it! Your half-hour's up!"

He must have switched off the current. The image faded, and I took my
face from the tube, dropping it on my arms.

"O-o-o-o-o-oh!" I groaned.

"How do you feel?" he snapped.

"Feel? All right--physically." I looked up.

Concern flickered in his blue eyes. "What's the cube root of 4913?" he
crackled sharply.

I've always been quick at figures. "It's--uh--17," I returned dully.
"Why the devil--?"

"You're all right mentally," he announced. "Now--why were you sitting
there like a dummy for half an hour? My idealizator must have worked, as
is only natural for a van Manderpootz creation, but what were you
thinking of?"

"I thought--I thought of 'girl'," I groaned.

He snorted. "Hah! You would, you idiot! 'House' or 'horse' wasn't good