inability to transfer to canvas a living copy of her own face
argue that she herself was without character--had she failed
because there was in truth nothing to delineate? Or was it because
she sought to see something unreal--sought to control a purely
inherent impulse? It was a problem she had never solved.

She looked now at the mirrored figure with her usual disapproval,
great brown eyes scowling back at her from the glass, then made a
little obliterating movement with her hand and shook her head.
Appearance had never mattered before, but now she wanted so much
to please--to be a credit to the interest shown, to repay the time
and money spent upon her. Her eyes grew wistful as she leant
nearer to see if there were any tell-tale traces of tears, then
danced with sudden amusement as she picked up a powder puff and
dabbed tentatively.

"Oh, Gillian Locke, what would the Reverend Mother say!" she
murmured, and laughed.

The poodle, jealous for attention, leaped on to a chair beside
her, his paws on the plate glass slab scattering brushes and
bottles, and still laughing she smothered his damp eager nose with
powder until he sneezed disgusted protest.

With a conciliatory caress she left him to disarrange the dressing
table further, and went back to the window. Beneath her lawns
extended to a wide terrace, stone balustraded, from the centre of
which a long flight of steps led down to a formal rose garden
sheltered by a high yew hedge and backed by a little copse beyond
which the heavily timbered park stretched indefinitely in the