in regard to marriage, as she did, it was certainly strange that she should not have heard of any offer made to her uncle and aunt for her hand.  Surely the mothers of marriageable sons knew of her existence, of her fortune, of the titles she held in her own right and could confer upon her husband and leave to her children.  It was not natural that no one should wish to marry her, that no mother should desire such an heiress for her son.

With the distrustful introspection of maiden youth, she suddenly asked herself whether by any possibility she were different from other girls and whether she had not some strange defect, physical or mental, of which the existence had been most carefully concealed from her all her life.  In the quick impulse she rose and brought all the burning candles to the toilet table, and lighted others, and stood before the mirror, in the yellow light, gazing most critically at her own reflexion.  She looked long and earnestly and quite without vanity.  She told herself, cataloguing her looks, that her hair was neither black nor brown, but that it was very thick and long and waved naturally; that her eyes were very dark, with queer little angles just above the lids, under the prominent brows; that her nose, seen in full face, looked very straight and rather small, though she had been told by the girls in the convent that it was aquiline and pointed; that her cheeks were thin and almost colourless; that her chin was round and smooth and prominent, her lips rather dark than red, and modelled in a high curve; that her ears were very small—­she threw back the heavy hair to see them better, turning her face sideways to the glass; that her throat was over-slender, and her neck and arms far too thin for beauty, but with a young leanness which might improve with time, though nothing could ever make them white.  She was dark, on the whole.  She was willing to admit that she was sallow, that her eyes had a rather sad look in them, and even that one was almost imperceptibly larger than the other, though the difference was so small that she had never noticed it before, and it might be due to the uncertain light of the candles in the dim room.  But most assuredly there was no physical defect to be seen.  She was not beautiful like poor Bianca Corleone; but she was far from ugly—­that was certain.

And in mind—­she laughed as she looked at herself in the glass.  Bosio Macomer told her that she was clever, and he certainly knew.  But her own expression pleased her when she laughed, and she laughed again with pleasure, and watched herself in a sort of girlish and innocent satisfaction.  Then her eyes met their own reflexion, and she grew suddenly grave again, and something in them told her that they were not laughing with her lips, and might not often look upon things mirthful.

But she was not stupid, and she was not ugly.  She had assured herself of that.  The worst that could be said was that she was a very thin girl and that her complexion was not brilliant, though it was healthy enough, and clear.  No—­there was certainly no reason why her aunt should not have received offers of marriage for her, and many people would have thought it strange that she should be still unmarried—­with her looks, her name, and that great fortune of which Gregorio Macomer was taking such good care.