Mrs. Fellowes stopped on the threshold and took in Gwen leisurely with a half-choked gasp of wonder, then she went over and kissed her. “Gwen, love, you _are_ beautiful, I never knew it before!” Gwen looked up at her then turned to the glass and laughed. “I am,” she said, “I am beautiful and _I_ never knew it before!” Then she stood up and shook down the soft gleaming folds of her tulle-shrouded silk and straightened herself. It was her first long dress, and added two inches to her height. “Look, I am changed, I am a new creature, I am afraid of nothing! I feel like a knight-errant setting forth on his quest, his was glory, mine—” she paused. “What’s yours?” said Mrs. Fellowes smiling on her. “Mine? Mine’s glory too.” She paused again, and a sudden trouble leaped into her face. “But it’s due to me, see. Why not?” And her great eyes flashed triumphantly into the glass. “‘_I will attain_’ like Paracelsus.” She laughed again but her mirth had a jar in it. “He went the wrong way about it,” remarked Mrs. Fellowes placidly, “take care you don’t do the same!” “He was a fraud to begin with, I’m not, neither in brain nor body.” Mrs. Fellowes looked at her critically, “the outside of you is flawless enough, and, goodness knows! you are all there as far as brain goes. But I’m not so sure as to the inside of you; there, an inch or so to the left of that diamond star, I believe you are perfectly empty!” “Ugh! That’s empty of course, except for the bits of you and the rector it holds, there’s been nothing to fill it.” “A thing must have a capacity for holding before it can hold, my good child, and original capacity dwindles from disuse, as your father’s daughter must know. Atrophy is the word in your jargon, isn’t it?” “Oh, all glory doesn’t come through that mawkish muscle! I have lived for nineteen years without anything to try the holding capacity of mine, and I can go on for a while yet and get my glory through other channels.” “No, you can’t, a woman’s crown of glory comes through her heart or it isn’t worth the wearing, her heart leads her reason, and is often the surer guide into the bargain.” “Why do you speak like this,” said the girl, flushing, and flashing out a white arm towards her, “on my coming-out night? It isn’t fair of you!” “You brought it on yourself, my Gwen, you’re setting out on a wrong tack. Let yourself go, child, be natural and strive after—nothing. All good will come to you by Divine right.” A sudden chill ran down Mrs. Fellowes’ back, and a horrid little song began to croon in her ears, “Through much tribulation” were the words of it, and it kept on by fits all that evening. “Turn round again and let me look at you, dear. Ah, I feel as if it were the coming-out night of my own child!” There was a quick short catch in her voice. “Kiss me, Gwen, and, darling, don’t think of victory, there’s blood in the very thought! The head and front of a woman’s life is love, God’s, and mother’s, and man’s!”