"We've had the beds turned," she said. "The light hurt Steven's eyes. I can't say I like sleeping with my head out in the middle of the room."
"Why don't you lie the other way then?"
"My dear, Steven wouldn't like that. Oh, what a mess my hair's in!"
She turned to the glass and smoothed her disordered waves and coils, while she kept her eyes fixed on Gwenda's image there, appraising her clothes, her slenderness and straightness, the set of her head on her shoulders, the air that she kept up of almost insolent adolescence. She noted the delicate lines on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes; she saw that her small defiant face was still white and firm, and that her eyes looked violet blue with the dark shadows under them.
Time was the only power that had been good to Gwenda.
"She ought to look more battered," Mary thought. "She does carry it off well. And she's only two years younger than I am.
"It's her figure, really, not her face. She's got more lines than I have. But if I wore that long straight coat I should look awful in it."
"It's all very well for you," she said. "You haven't had two children."
"No. I haven't. But what's all very well?"
"The good looks you contrive to keep, my dear. Nobody would know you were thirty-three."