George had actually moved the bureau at last, so that the light fell justly on the mirror. Yes, the pale green dress was pretty. Like lettuce and mayonnaise, George had said, admiring the frail yellow collar. It brought out the clear blue of the eyes, like sluiced pebbles. She was almost amazed (looking closely) to see how clear they were, after so many angers, so much--physiology. One can be candid in solitude. Thirty-four. What was that story she had read, which said that a woman is at her most irresistible at thirty-five? Mother had sent it to her, in a magazine, and had written in the margin _True of my Phyllis_. She laughed. What a merciless comedy life is. Ten years before, Mother would have marked in the same way any story that said _twenty_-five. Was there no such thing as truth? Blessed Mother, who knew that woman must be flattered. A pity that story hadn’t been in a book instead of a magazine. Books carry more authority.... But books, pooh! Who had ever written a book that told the innermost truth? Thank God, in her secret heroic self she was aware of joy and disgust, but she kept them private. Truth is about other people, not about me. A woman doesn’t bear and rear three children ... bring them into the world, a comelier phrase ... and cohabit with a queer fish like George without knowing what life amounts to. And how enviable she was: young, pretty, slender, with three such adorable kiddies. “I don’t care, there won’t be any one at the Picnic prettier. I was made to be happy and I’m going to be.”