very well have dispensed with) cast her arms round my neck.
"Lucy Snowe! Lucy Snowe!" she cried in a somewhat sobbing voice, half hysterical.
"What in the world is the matter?" I drily said.
"How do I look—how do I look to-night?" she demanded.
"As usual," said I; "preposterously vain."
"Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful: I feel it, I see it—for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?"
"I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of your bent."
The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance, remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow—whether it was possible it could feed to satiety—whether any whisper of consideration for
