Miss Deane had been of a robust, stout woman, frank in her speech and
inclined to be very critical of the newly found niece whom she had
chosen to inspect. Now, she was prepared rather to expect a fragile,
rather querulous old lady, older even than her years; an aunt to be
talked to in a lowered voice and treated with the same delicate care
that must be extended to her furniture.

Rachel paused with her hand on the drawing-room door, and sighed at the
thought of all the repressions and nervous strains that this visit
might have in store for her.

She entered the room almost on tiptoe, and then stood stock-still,
suddenly shocked and bewildered with surprise. Whatever she had
expected, it was not this. For a moment she was unable to believe that
the sprightly, painted and bedizened figure before her could possibly
be that of her aunt. Her head was crowned with an exuberant brown wig,
her heavy eyebrows were grotesquely blackened, her hollow cheeks stiff
with powder, her lips brightened to a fantastic scarlet. And she was
posed there, standing before the tea-table with her head a little back,
looking at her niece with a tolerant condescension, with the air of a
superb young beauty, self-conscious and proud of her charms.

"Hm! So you're my semi-mythical niece," she said, putting up her
lorgnette. "I'm glad at any rate to find that you're not, after all, a
fabulous creature." She spoke in a high, rather thin voice that
produced an effect of effort, as if she were playing on the top octave
of a flute.

Rachel had never in her life felt so gauche and awkward.