She winced, her head flung up in outrage.
“I’m not like that. Never for one instant!”
But the tilted, scornful looking-glass face said only—
“Never for one instant? Are you sure?”
She had a wild gust of anger.
“It’s not fair. We’re going to be married. It’s cruel of Justin. It doesn’t happen to other people like this. It doesn’t happen in books. There was Oliver—there’s Robin and Annabel——Why should we be different? Everywhere people love each other.” Then, with a whimsical twist of her thought: “Well, I suppose they’re satisfied.”
“I expect they are.” The face in the glass had also its mocking smile. “They’re in love, you see.”
“But Justin’s in love——”
“Is he?” asked the looking-glass.
And as she stared into those reflected eyes she saw rising up in their depths as if they were not eyes but pools of memory, a gleam, minute and exquisite as an enamel, of green and midday blue, and a patch of black like a sloe-bush and its scanty shadow, and herself, a tiny far-away self, lying under it listening to a tiny Justin who plucked at the thyme and the golden hawksbit as he said—she heard his voice—