mamma."

But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the windows,
which reflected herself and the room completely, while her mamma sat down
and also looked at the reflection.

"That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color
that sets you off?" said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely with
her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand
brushing back the stream of hair.

"I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head,"
said Gwendolen,--"only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint's noses
never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your perfectly
straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character--a nose of all
work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy."

"Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world," said
Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the
table, and resting her elbow near it.

"Now, mamma," said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning away
from the glass with an air of vexation, "don't begin to be dull here. It
spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now. What have you
to be gloomy about _now_?"

"Nothing, dear," said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and
beginning to take off her dress. "It is always enough for me to see you
happy."