Jane-Anne was certainly slim, the unkindly accurate might have described her as decidedly thin; but, even so, she was not shaped at all like the ladies depicted in _The Peeress_. Her legs were long and her hips were small, but—"I seem too thick through," she said to herself. There was a whole page of replies to anxious students of the Art of Beauty. "Pietista" sought to improve a throat "discoloured and too thin." "Butterfly" complained of "sagging lines beneath chin and around mouth." Jane-Anne flew to the glass but could discover nothing of the kind, and was comforted. "Troubled" wanted to know how to "colour dark hair a bright auburn," but Jane-Anne passed this by. She was perfectly satisfied with the colour of her hair. What she did long for was a box of "Magnolia Bloom powder," which _The Peeress_ assured "Amabelle" would lend to the countenance "the soft sheen of a butterfly’s wing." But this desirable appearance could only be arrived at by the expenditure of eighteen-pence, and Jane-Anne possessed but three-halfpence in the world. The other beautifiers cost such vast sums as excluded them altogether from her scheme of possibilities. Eighteenpence: one shilling and sixpence. Once Lord Dursley had given her a new two-shilling bit and her aunt allowed her to keep it. But, alas! it was spent long ago, and Lord Dursley was not very likely to come to Oxford that summer. She would consult Mr. Wycherly. She had infinite faith in his sympathy, his wisdom, and his resource. She would show him this enchanting journal and see what he thought of it. Perhaps he, who read so many books, was already familiar with its pages. She carried it with her when she went to bid him good-night. It had become an established custom for Jane-Anne to bid him good-night at considerable length. "Have you ever read _The Peeress_, sir?" she asked, laying it on his table on the top of an open book. "Never," said Mr. Wycherly. "Is this the lady?" He opened it, turned the pages somewhat hastily, and actually blushed. "My dear child!" he exclaimed, "where did you get hold of this extremely shameless production?" "Mrs. Methuen always takes it, sir; it’s a ladies’ paper. She left this number here." "Mrs. Methuen, that refined and charming young lady! Surely, my dear, you are mistaken." "No, sir, really. Lots of ladies always read it, aunt said so. I wanted to take it back to her lest she should want it, but aunt says she gets it every week, and she didn’t think it mattered." "That being the case," Mr. Wycherly remarked, hastily shutting the magazine, "it is evidently not intended for me, and you had better take it away." "Oh, sir," Jane-Anne pleaded, "do look at the pictures. They’re such beautiful ladies." But Mr. Wycherly steadfastly averted his gaze from the offending magazine, exclaiming: