Susan
washed her hands again, refused to let Mrs. Tucker run and
bring powder, produced from a drawer some prepared chalk and
with it safeguarded her nose against shine; she tucked the
powder rag into her stocking. Last of all the gloves went on and
a small handkerchief was thrust into the palm of the left glove.
"How do I look?" asked Susan. "Lovely"--"Fine"--"Just grand,"
exclaimed the three maids.
"I feel awfully dressed up," said she. "And it's so hot!"
"You must go right downstairs where it's cool and you won't get
wilted," cried Mrs. Tucker. "Hold your skirts close on the
way. The steps and walls ain't none too clean."
In the bathroom downstairs there was a long mirror built into
the wall, a relic of the old house's long departed youth of
grandeur. As the tenant--Mr. Jessop--was out, Mrs. Tucker led
the way into it. There Susan had the first satisfactory look
at herself. She knew she was a pretty woman; she would have
been weak-minded had she not known it. But she was amazed at
herself. A touch here and there, a sinuous shifting of the
body within the garments, and the suggestion of "dressed up"
vanished before the reflected eyes of her agitated assistants,
who did not know what had happened but only saw the results.
She hardly knew the tall beautiful woman of fashion gazing at
her from the mirror. Could it be that this was her
hair?--these eyes hers--and the mouth and nose and the skin?
Was this long slender figure her very own? What an astounding
difference clothes did make! Never before had Susan worn
anything nearly so fine.
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