Mouston's affection this evening became over-enthusiastic and
threatening to fragile silks and laces. Gillian kissed the top
of his head, shook solemnly an insistent paw, and put him on one
side. She moved to the dressing table and inspected herself
critically in the big mirror. She looked with grave amusement.
Was that Gillian Locke? She wondered did a butterfly feel more
incongruous when it shed its dull grub skin. For so many years she
had worn the sombre garb of the convent schoolgirl, the change was
still new enough to delight and the natural woman within her
responded to the fascination of pretty clothing. The dark
draperies of the convent had palled, she had craved colour with an
almost starved longing.

The general reflection in the long glass satisfied, a more
detailed personal survey raised serious doubts. She had never
recognised the grace of her slender figure, the uncommon beauty of
her pale oval face--other types had appealed more, other colouring
attracted. She had studied her face often, disapprovingly. Once or
twice, lacking a model, she had essayed to reproduce her own
features. She had failed utterly. The faithful portraiture she
achieved for others was wanting. She was unable to express in her
own likeness the almost startling exposition of character that
distinguished her ordinary work. She had been her own limitation.
Her failure had puzzled her, causing a searching mental inquiry.
She had no knowledge herself of how her special gift took form,
the work grew involuntarily under her hand. She was aware of no
definite impression received, no attempt at soul analysis. Vaguely
she supposed that in some subtle mysterious way the character of
her sitter communicated itself, influencing her; in fact her best
work had often had the least care bestowed upon it. Did her