the gong sound.

"Does that mean it's time to dress already?" she asked.

Miss Deane nodded. "You've an hour before dinner," she said, "but I'll
go up now. I like to be leisurely over my toilet."

She rose as she spoke, but as she crossed the room, she paused with
what seemed to be a little jerk of surprise as she caught sight of her
own reflection in a tall mirror above one of the gilt-legged console
tables against the wall. Then she deliberately stopped, turned and
surveyed herself, half contemptuously, under lowered eyelids, with a
set of her head and back that belied plainly enough the pout of her
critical lips. And having admired that haggard image, she lifted her
wasted hand and delicately touched her whitened, hollow cheeks with the
tips of her heavily jewelled fingers.

Rachel stared in horror. It seemed to her just then as if the
reflection of her aunt in the mirror was indeed that of herself grown
instantly and mysteriously old. For now, whether because the reversal
of the image by the mirror or because of that perfect duplication of
her own characteristic pose and gesture, the likeness had flashed out
clear and unmistakable. She saw that her father had been right. Once,
incalculable ages ago, this repulsive old woman might have been very
like herself.

She slipped quickly out of the room and ran upstairs. She felt that she
must instantly put that question to the test; search herself for the
signs of coming age as she had so recently searched her aunt's face for
the indications of her former youth.