The housekeeper on searching found the key in the drawer of the cabinet close by the panel, and presently handed it to Bugle, the lady’s-maid, telling her significantly to give it to her Royal Highness. “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Startin,” said Bugle, who had been busy up-stairs during the scene in the drawing-room, and was rather offended at this irony in a new servant. “I mean the young lady that’s to command us all—and well worthy for looks and figure,” replied Mrs. Startin in propitiation. “She’ll know what key it is.” “If you have laid out what we want, go and see to the others, Bugle,” Gwendolen had said, when she and Mrs. Davilow entered their black and yellow bedroom, where a pretty little white couch was prepared by the side of the black and yellow catafalque known as the best bed. “I will help mamma.” But her first movement was to go to the tall mirror between the windows, which reflected herself and the room completely, while her mamma sat down and also looked at the reflection. “That is a becoming glass, Gwendolen; or is it the black and gold color that sets you off?” said Mrs. Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely with her three-quarter face turned toward the mirror, and her left hand brushing back the stream of hair. “I should make a tolerable St. Cecilia with some white roses on my head,” said Gwendolen,—“only how about my nose, mamma? I think saint’s noses never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character—a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy.” “Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world,” said Mrs. Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the table, and resting her elbow near it. “Now, mamma,” said Gwendolen, in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning away from the glass with an air of vexation, “don’t begin to be dull here. It spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now. What have you to be gloomy about _now_?” “Nothing, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and beginning to take off her dress. “It is always enough for me to see you happy.” “But you should be happy yourself,” said Gwendolen, still discontentedly, though going to help her mamma with caressing touches. “Can nobody be happy after they are quite young? You have made me feel sometimes as if nothing were of any use. With the girls so troublesome, and Jocosa so dreadfully wooden and ugly, and everything make-shift about us, and you looking so dull—what was the use of my being anything? But now you _might_ be happy.” “So I shall, dear,” said Mrs. Davilow, patting the cheek that was bending near her. “Yes, but really. Not with a sort of make-believe,” said Gwendolen, with resolute perseverance. “See what a hand and arm!—much more beautiful than mine. Any one can see you were altogether more beautiful.”