“Caustic creature! You never have a kind word for me; but in spite of you, and all other envious detractors, I know I am beautiful; I feel it, I see it—for there is a great looking-glass in the dressing-room, where I can view my shape from head to foot. Will you go with me now, and let us two stand before it?”
“I will, Miss Fanshawe: you shall be humoured even to the top of your bent.”
The dressing-room was very near, and we stepped in. Putting her arm through mine, she drew me to the mirror. Without resistance remonstrance, or remark, I stood and let her self-love have its feast and triumph: curious to see how much it could swallow—whether it was possible it could feed to satiety—whether any whisper of consideration for others could penetrate her heart, and moderate its vainglorious exultation.
Not at all. She turned me and herself round; she viewed us both on all sides; she smiled, she waved her curls, she retouched her sash, she spread her dress, and finally, letting go my arm, and curtseying with mock respect, she said: “I would not be you for a kingdom.”
The remark was too naïve to rouse anger; I merely said: “Very good.”
“And what would you give to be ME?” she inquired.
“Not a bad sixpence—strange as it may sound,” I replied. “You are but a poor creature.”
“You don’t think so in your heart.”
“No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only occasionally turn you over in my brain.”
“Well, but,” said she, in an expostulatory tone, “just listen to the difference of our positions, and then see how happy am I, and how miserable are you.”