city and if its end would be only the fulfilling of the law of her own
nature. Then she thought of Angela in her closed chamber. Had she been
shielded? Was she also set apart? But the thought did not disturb her,
for she herself seemed of a larger growth, of a braver spirit, than
Angela or than her aunts or than Uncle Percival, who had missed life
also. They had been defeated, but was it not because they had lacked in
themselves the courage to attain?

The next morning, after she had had her tea and toast in her room, she
went, as was her custom, into Angela's chamber. Early as it was, Mrs.
Payne had already apparelled herself in her paint and powder and driven
down. Seen by the morning sunlight, her smeared face with its brilliant
artificial smile revealed a pathos which was rendered more acute by its
effect of playful grotesqueness. She was like a faded and decrepit
actress who, fired by the unconquerable spirit of her art, forces her
wrinkled visage to ape the romantic ecstasies of passion. Age which is
beautiful only when it has become expressive of repose--of serene
renouncement--showed to Laura's eyes only as a ghastly and comic
travesty of youth.

Angela was having her breakfast at a little table by the window, and at
Laura's entrance she turned to her with a sigh of evident relief.

"Rosa has come down to speak to you particularly," she explained. "There
is something she has very heavily on her mind."

Mrs. Payne had wheeled herself about at the same instant; and Laura,
after regarding her uncertainly for a moment, impressed a light caress
upon her outstretched jewelled fingers.