young eyes?

No, they didn't. And yet they were full of light. There was nothing
faded about them. But somehow at that moment they looked terribly
experienced. With a conscious effort she tried to change their
expression, to make them look less full of knowledge. But it seemed to
her that she failed utterly. No, they were not young eyes; they never
could be young eyes. The long accustomed woman of the world was mirrored
in them with her many experiences. They were beautiful in their way, but
their way had nothing to do with youth. And near the eyes, very near,
there were definite traces of maturity. A few, as yet very faint, lines
showed; and there were shadows; and there was--she could only call it
to herself "a slightly hollow look," which she had never observed in any
girl, or, so far as she remembered, in any young woman.

She gazed at her mouth and then at her throat. Both showed signs of age;
the throat especially, she thought. The lips were fine, finely curved,
voluptuous. But they were somehow not fresh lips. In some mysterious
way, which really she could not define, life had marked them as mature.
There were a couple of little furrows in the throat and there was also
a slightly "drawn" look on each side just below the line of the jaw. By
the temples also, close to the hair, there was something which did not
look young.

Lady Sellingworth felt very cold. At that moment she probably
exaggerated in her mind the effect of her appearance. She plunged down
into pessimism about herself. A sort of desperation came upon her.
Underneath all her conquering charm, hidden away like a trembling bird
under depths of green leaves, there was a secret diffidence of which she
had occasionally been conscious during her life. It had no doubt been