She began to regard her physical attractions dispassionately. She knew she was not good looking, nor even pretty, but hitherto she had shirked the recognition of the fact. Now she became almost impulsively eager to admit the width of the barrier that separated the peculiarities of her features from the ideal of feminine beauty. She had often regarded herself critically in the mirror and asked herself the question: What do I look like? She tried to think of her reflection as of a casual stranger seen in the street: on this basis she attempted to assess its qualities, good and bad. But concerning the whole, as opposed to the component parts, she had hitherto shirked a decision. She would not commit herself so far as to say whether it was good or bad, attractive or otherwise. But now she cheerfully agreed: I am not at all pretty and my red hair is only nice to those who like red hair. But I am distinctive. If you looked at me once you would probably look at me again. My face is not one you would easily forget. These remarks are ambiguous, I know, but they are none the less true for that. And a subconscious implication was: It adds to the extraordinary interestingness of myself that I am not conventionally good looking. Call me grotesque or what you will, but remember that my looks are no more astonishing than myself.... Viewing herself thus, she was rather proud of her facial eccentricities. And she was conscious that, good looking or not, there was a subtle attractiveness about her. She decided, quite without any evidence in support of the theory: The attractiveness of a person who is not good looking (if it exists) is an immensely richer, rarer, and more precious commodity than that possessed by one who is merely conventionally beautiful....
While being frankly and (she thought) rather charmingly conceited, she was stringently careful to avoid the taint of snobbishness. The thought occurred to her more than once that the very insistence of her efforts to eschew snobbishness might be even in itself a subtle manifestation of the dreaded evil. She was urgently careful to show Mrs. Carbass that her rise to success had made no difference at all in her relations with her. She enjoyed emphasizing the contrast between their two stations, and she enjoyed equally emphasizing the paradox of her behaving as if they were on equal terms together. She was glad for her to see her casually in expensive evening gowns, she enjoyed the thrill of having taxis waiting for her in the street; she liked Mrs. Carbass to bring her in a handful of letters and say: “All fer you, miss. You gits all the letters nardays.” These things indicated the gulf that was widening between their respective social positions. And she also liked to clean her own boots on a Sunday morning (when Mrs. Carbass stayed late in bed), and she enjoyed the mediocre thrills of travelling third-class. For these things indicated the amazing paradox that though she had achieved fame, fame had not changed her. Whereas fame had changed her: it had made her more arrogant, more self-confident, more conceited. As she cleaned her boots on the Sabbath she felt a delicious thrill at the thought: These fingers of mine, so deft, so delicate, fingers in a million, are now employed in the most ordinary, unromantic and menial of tasks. For the moment I am no better than a maid-of-all-work. But what amazing secrets these fingers of mine possess! And what a grand paradox it is! That these fingers, such incomparable exponents of Chopin and Liszt and Beethoven, should be prostituting themselves for the purpose of producing a black gloss on a pair of shoes!
And somewhere at the back of her mind was the thought: It adds to the extraordinariness of myself that I do these things....
§ 3
Once in company with Verreker she went to see Razounov at a flat in Piccadilly. Razounov’s memory played him more than usually false. Verreker sent up his card, but it was plain to any beholder that Razounov had not the slightest recollection either of the name or, when he saw him, of the man.
“Ah, Mister Verrekair,” he stammered vacantly, and looked at Catherine. “And Mrs. Verrekair, eh?” he continued, leering at her babyishly.
“No,” said Catherine, and expected herself to blush, and was surprised when she didn’t.
“Zen zhe future Mrs. Verrekair, eh?” insisted Razounov, with dreamy cunning.
“No,” said Verreker, with what Catherine thought was unnecessary enthusiasm. “This is my former pupil Miss Weston—I expect you have heard of her.”
“I haf rhead of her,” corrected Razounov. “I deed not know that she wass a pupil of yours. I am very pleased to make her acquaintenance.” He bowed ceremoniously, quite unconscious that he had met her twice before.