"Ah!" he said. "Now you are yourself."
He took her hand, and drew her in front of the mirror, but she refused to lift up her eyes and look at her reflection.
"I'm a scarecrow," she murmured, twisting the front of her gown in her fingers. Her lips began to twitch ominously. Julian felt uncomfortable. He thought she was going to cry.
"You are prettier than ever," he said. "Look!"
"No, no. It's all gone—all gone."
"What?"
"My looks, dearie. I could do without the paint once. I can't now."
Suddenly she turned to him with a sort of vulgar passion, that suspicion of the hard young harridan, typical of the pavement, which he had observed in her before.
"I should like to get the whole lot of men in here," she said, "and—and chew them up."
She showed her teeth almost like an animal. Then the relapse, characteristic of the hysterical condition in which she was, came.