the black and gold colour that sets you off?" said Mrs Davilow, as Gwendolen stood obliquely with her three-quarter face turned towards the mirror, and her left hand brushing back the stream of hair.
"I should make a tolerable Saint Cecilia with some white roses on my head," said Gwendolen,—"only, how about my nose, mamma? I think saints' noses never in the least turn up. I wish you had given me your perfectly straight nose; it would have done for any sort of character—a nose of all work. Mine is only a happy nose; it would not do so well for tragedy."
"Oh, my dear, any nose will do to be miserable with in this world," said Mrs Davilow, with a deep, weary sigh, throwing her black bonnet on the table, and resting her elbow near it.
"Now, mamma!" said Gwendolen in a strongly remonstrant tone, turning away from the glass with an air of vexation, "don't begin to be dull here. It spoils all my pleasure, and everything may be so happy now. What have you to be gloomy about now?"
"Nothing, dear," said Mrs Davilow, seeming to rouse herself, and beginning to take off her dress. "It is always enough for me to see you happy."
"But you should be happy yourself," said
