I could sit at my glass and look for hours at my reflected image--if it
weren't for Kitty--and--

Why, it seems like another girl, and such a girl as never the world saw
before--not me, but Her. Sometimes times I fear Her; but oftener and
oftener, as I get used to the lovely vision, I want to hug Her right out
of the cold mirror and kiss Her and pat Her smooth cheek like a child's,
and put pretty clothes upon Her, as if she were a doll.

And then I try to realise that Her is Me, my own self, and I just cannot
believe it! I look from the reflected image to a little photograph of the
Helen Winship I once knew, and back again to the glass, and wonder, and
thank God, and shudder with awe of my own loveliness. I luxuriate in it, I
joy in it, I feel it in every fibre of my being. I am as happy as a queen.
I am a queen--or She is.

I am but slightly taller. My form is more rounded and of better mould, but
I am still slender. My face is the same face but--how can I express it? A
Venus with the--the expression of a Western schoolgirl pursuing special
studies in New York, looks at me with Her eyes. They are the eyes of Helen
Winship, but larger and fuller orbed and more lustrous, with an appeal
that makes me fall in love with myself, as I look. The nose is longer and
straighter, the cheeks fuller and fairer, the chin daintier, the neck--ah,
well, why shouldn't I be frank? I am beautiful!

And the complexion--still so strange I do not say "my complexion"--clear,
fair, rosy all in one, with the fineness and purity of a baby's; it is the
most indescribable of all the marvels that glow in my glass. Before, I had
the rather sallow, powder-excusing skin of so many Western girls. Now it
is perfect. I love to gaze by the hour at my own beauty. I should be