"This is being a coward again," she said to herself. "It is worse than to have said nothing. It is true that she will look more refined, now one can see a little of her forehead; and it is cowardly to be afraid to stand firm when I really think so. I—yes, I will say something to her."
"Octavia," she began aloud, "I am sure you are making a mistake again." This as decidedly as possible, which was not very decidedly. "You—you look very much—nicer."
"I look ghastly!" said Octavia, who began to feel rather absurd.
"You do not. Your forehead—you have the prettiest forehead I ever saw, Octavia," said Lucia eagerly; "and your eyebrows are perfect. I—wish you would look at yourself again."
Rather to her surprise, Octavia began to laugh under cover of her handkerchief: reaction had set in, and, though the laugh was a trifle hysterical, it was still a laugh. Next she gave her eyes a final little dab, and rose to go to the glass again. She looked at herself, touched up the short, waving fringe left on her forehead, and turned to Lucia, with a resigned expression.
"Do you think that any one who was used to seeing it the other way would—would think I looked horrid?" she inquired anxiously.
"They would think you prettier,—a great deal," Lucia answered earnestly. "Don't you know, Octavia, that nothing could be really unbecoming to you? You have that kind of face."
For a few seconds Octavia seemed to lose herself in thought of a speculative nature.
"Jack always said so," she remarked at length.
"Jack!" repeated Lucia timidly.