CONFIDENCES


The shadows silently lengthened on the lawn.

The home-coming rooks circled and cawed around the tall elm trees.

The sun-dial pointed to six o'clock.

Myra Ingleby rose and stood with the slanting rays of the sun full
in her eyes, her arms stretched over her head. The artist noted
every graceful line of her willowy figure.

"Ah, bah!" she yawned. "It is so perfect out here, and I must go in
to my maid. Jane, be advised in time. Do not ever begin facial
massage. You become a slave to it, and it takes up hours of your
day. Look at me."

They were both looking already. Myra was worth looking at.

"For ordinary dressing purposes, I need not have gone in until
seven; and now I must lose this last, perfect hour."

"What happens?" asked Jane. "I know nothing of the process."

"I can't go into details," replied Lady Ingleby, "but you know how
sweet I have looked all day? Well, if I did not go to my maid now, I
should look less sweet by the end of dinner, and at the close of the
evening I should appear ten years older."