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 effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century.

“Who’s coming to dinner?” Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture.

“There’s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey.”

“I’m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it’s wonderful—I think he’s almost good enough for you, Katharine.”

“You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him.”

“I shan’t dare do that,” Cassandra asserted.

“Why? You're not afraid of him, are you?”

“A little—because he’s connected with you.”

Katharine smiled.

“But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you’re staying here at least a fortnight, you won’t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it’s at the climax; but to-morrow it’ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe.”

She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin’s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however,