voices, a hubbub of sound, tall figures in black passing and repassing,
strange faces reflected in endless pier-glasses,--faces of puckered
anxiety repeating themselves in ludicrous _vrai-semblance_.

I saw our own little group reproduced in one. There was Aunt Philippa,
tall and portly, with her well-preserved beauty, a little full-blown
perhaps, but still 'marvellously' good-looking for her age, if she could
only have not been so conscious of the fact.

Then, Sara, standing there slim and straight, with the furred mantle just
slipping over her smooth shoulders, radiant with good health, good looks,
perfectly contented with herself and the whole world, as it behooves a
handsome, high-spirited young woman to be with her surroundings, looking
bright, unconcerned, good-humoured, in spite of her mother's fussy
criticisms: Aunt Philippa was always a little fussy about dress.

Between the two I could just catch a glimpse of myself,--a tall
girl, dressed very plainly in black, with a dark complexion, large,
anxious-looking eyes, that seemed appealing for relief from all this
dulness,--a shadowy sort of image of discontent and protest in the
background, hovering behind Aunt Philippa's velvet mantle and Sara's
slim supple figure.

'Well, Ursula,' said Sara, still good-humouredly, 'will you not give us
your opinion? Does this dolman suit me, or would you prefer a long jacket
trimmed with skunk?'

I remember I decided in favour of the jacket, only Aunt Philippa
interposed, a little contemptuously,--