She went to the dressing table and looked at herself in the glass, leaning forward that she might see herself closely. The face which drew nearer and nearer had the effect of some tropic flower, because it was so alive with colour which seemed to palpitate instead of standing still. Her soft mouth was warm and brilliant with it, and the darkness of her eyes was—as it had always been—like dew. Her brows were a slender black velvet line, and her lashes made a thick, softening shadow. She saw they were becoming. She cupped her round chin in her hands and studied herself with a desire to be sure of the truth without prejudice or self conceit. The whole effect of her was glowing, and she felt the glow as others did. She put up a finger to touch the velvet petal texture of her skin, and she saw how prettily pointed and slim her hand was. Yes, that was pretty—and her hair—the way it grew about her forehead and ears and the back of her neck. She gazed at her young curve and colour and flame of life’s first beauty with deep curiosity, singularly impersonal for her years. She liked it; she began to be grateful as Mademoiselle had said she and Dowie were. Yes, if other people liked it, there was no use in pretending it would not count. “If I am going to earn my living,” she thought, with entire gravity, “it may be good for me. If I am a governess, it will be useful because children like pretty people. And if I am a secretary and work in an office, I daresay business men like one to be pretty because it is more cheerful.” She mentioned this to Mademoiselle Vallé, who was very kind about it, though she looked thoughtful afterwards. When, a few days later, Mademoiselle had an interview with Coombe in Benby’s comfortable room, he appeared thoughtful also as he listened to her recital of the incidents of the long walk during which her charge had revealed her future plans. “She is a nice child,” he said. “I wish she did not dislike me so much. I understand her, villain as she thinks me. I am not a genuine villain,” he added, with his cold smile. But he was saying it to himself, not to Mademoiselle. This, she saw, but—singularly, perhaps—she spoke as if in reply. “Of that I am aware.” He turned his head slightly, with a quick, unprepared movement. “Yes?” he said. “Would your lordship pardon me if I should say that otherwise I should not ask your advice concerning a very young girl?” He slightly waved his hand. “I should have known that—if I had thought of it. I do know it.” Mademoiselle Vallé bowed.