ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and
round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of
colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of
her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely,
prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved
beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd
be pleased.

She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved.
After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed
a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the
feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders,
and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she
could throw it back or draw it round her at will.

At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for the
struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her so--
and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides--why, she
couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he
must--why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of
her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other men.
He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out.
Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his
fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush
of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any man.

An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo
turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise,
drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight
across her breast.