incalculable.

"How much better you look than when I last saw you." she said to her
aunt. "Ewell evidently suits you."

And at once Mrs. Hannaford felt that she was stronger, younger, than
she had thought. Yes, she felt better than for a long time, and
Ewell was exactly suited to her health.

"Is that pastel yours, Olga? Admirable! The best thing of yours I
ever saw."

And Olga, who had thought her pastel worthless, saw all at once that
it really was not bad; she glowed with gratification.

The cousins were almost of an age, of much the same stature; but
Olga had a pallid tint, tawny hair, and bluish eyes, whilst Irene's
was a warm complexion, her hair of dark-brown, and her eyes of
hazel. As efficient human beings, there could be no comparison
between them; Olga looked frail, despondent, inclined to sullenness,
whilst Irene impressed one as in perfect health, abounding in gay
vitality, infinite in helpful resource. Straight as an arrow, her
shoulders the perfect curve, bosom and hips full-moulded to the
ideal of ripe girlhood, she could not make a gesture which was not
graceful, nor change her position without revealing a new excellence
of form. Yet a certain taste would have leant towards Miss
Hannaford, whose traits had more mystery; as an uncommon type, she
gained by this juxtaposition. Miss Derwent, despite her larger
experience of the world, her vastly better education, was a much
younger person than Olga; she had an occasional _naivete_ unknown to