She was sitting before the ancient mahogany dressing-table in her--and Wythie's--room, unblushingly regarding herself in the mirror, while the fingers of both hands, supporting her brilliant face, experimented with changes in it by pushing up the delicate eyebrows into quite a celestial angle. Frances Silsby, from the rocking-chair by the window, and Wythie on the foot of the bed, laughed.…
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