Verona, in the middle, was the tallest of the trio; her two Eurasian sisters beamed triumphantly on her reflection and their own.
"Oh no, no, no; we are not one bit a—like!" announced Pussy with a giggle, "who would suppose we were relations?"
"But she has a great look of me," proclaimed Dominga; "her hair grows in the same way, her nose is the same shape. We must certainly dress alike! although I am so fair and you," glancing at Verona, "are so very dark. What do you say?"
Verona nodded assent; she could not have uttered a word were it to save her life.
Her sister's remark enforced a terrible and tragic truth—she was very dark. On the other hand, Dominga was more of a Chandos than a Lopez, and her appearance was not altogether out of keeping with a long line of patrician ancestors. Her head was small and well set on, and her air was distinctly imperious. Besides these advantages she had magnificent hair, and a thin delicate profile. A tinge of colour in her cheeks and lips would have transformed Dominga into a beauty; unfortunately her skin was as white and dead as any sunbleached bone.
As she stood gazing into the glass the mirror reflected three faces, and of the trio, her own, in Dominga's opinion, was infinitely the fairest. It was possibly the most uncommon: being instinct with a peculiar fiery vitality. A striking—but scarcely what is called "a good face"—the jaw was a little square, the lips were a little cruel, the brilliant grey-green eyes were a little hard, a countenance that could look animated, alluring, impassioned, or implacable, reckless and grim. Like many red-haired women Dominga generally wore green—it was her favourite, and she believed, most flattering colour. On the present occasion her white cambric gown was enlivened by a vivid shade of emerald in belt and tie, and she surveyed her reflection with affectionate complacency as she remarked:
"Still, I daresay the same colours will suit us—we are both so pale! I am longing to see your dresses. Now I wonder if your boxes have come? I'll just go and ask if there's any sign of that bandy?" and with obliging alacrity the fair Miss Chandos quitted the room.
"Dominga is mother's favourite," announced Pussy. "Mother is awfullee proud of her hair and her dead-white skin and her figure. She is sure to be fond of you too; you are so pretty. But when she first heard you were coming—my! but she was mad! She said she would not have you, and she would not write. You see," and Pussy's soft dark eyes became apologetic, "we are so many girls, and Blanche was, oh, such a trouble! I'm afraid"—stopping short—"you have a headache. You look so seedy."
"Yes," assented Verona, "I have a dreadful headache."
"It is the horrid train; you will be better after dinner, I know. I will go and hurry it."