WHITEWASH
She contemplated her florid reflection with dignified satisfaction, picked up the artless Philippa's powder-puff, and discreetly subdued the violet-veined tone of her large, well-modelled Roman nose. She gently rubbed a tinge of mascaro upon her already heavy brows, and with a moistened finger removed the particles of powder from about her blue, incisive eyes, turning her head from side to side in contemplation of the "undulations" of the elaborate coiffure now protected by a net to retain its precision till the dowager should sally forth to an admiring public.
Philippa watched her aunt with disguised disgust. "Great, ugly thing! She thinks she's a beauty," she commented, inwardly, for Philippa loathed vanity in others. She turned her head, gasped with the pain the movement caused her aching eyeballs, arose, and walked gingerly to the violet-hung bed.
"I'm going to lie down," she said. "I do feel so ill—tell Marie to come to me. I want my lavender-water, and the shades pulled down. I wonder if I shall die!"
"You've got a nervous headache—you won't
