born with her, had lived in her as long as she had lived. Very few
people knew of its existence. But she knew, had known of it as long as
she remembered. Now that diffidence seemed to hold her with talons, to
press its beak into her heart.

She felt that she could not face the world with any assurance if she
lost her beauty. She had charm, cleverness, rank, position, money. She
knew all her advantages. But at that moment she seemed to be confronting
penury. And as she continued to look into the mirror ugliness seemed to
grow in the woman she saw like a spreading disease till she felt that
she would be frightened to show herself to anyone, and wished she could
hide from everyone who knew her.

That absurdly morbid fit passed, of course. It could not continue,
except in a woman who was physically ill, and Lady Sellingworth was
quite well. But it left its mark in her mind. From that day she began
to take intense trouble with herself. Hitherto she had been inclined
to trust her own beauty. She had relied on it almost instinctively.
And that strange, hidden diffidence, when it had manifested itself,
had manifested itself in connexion with social things, the success of
a dinner, or with things of the mind, the success or non-success of a
conversation with a clever man. She had never spoken of it to anyone,
for she had always been more or less ashamed of it, and had brought
silence to her aid in the endeavour to stamp it out lest it should
impair her power over others. But now it was quickened within her. It
grew, and in its growth tortured her.

"How do you manage it?"

That not very kind question of the friend who had compared her to an