For once I am taking great pains, and—­for a wonder—­pleasant pains with my toilet.  It is slightly delayed by a variety of unwonted interruptions—­knocks at the door, voices of valets in interrogation, and dialogue with my maid.

“If you please, Mr. Musgrave wants to know has Lady Tempest done with the rouge?”

(There is only one edition of rouge, which is traveling from room to room.)

Five minutes more, another knock.

“If you please, Mr. Parker’s compliments, and will Lady Tempest lend him a hair-pin to black his eyelashes?”

I am finished now, quite finished—­metamorphosed.  I have suffered a great deal in the process of powdering, as I fancy every one must have done since the world began; the powder has gone into my eyes, up my nose, down into my lungs.  I have breathed it, and sneezed it, and swallowed it, but “il faut souffrir pour etre belle” and I do not grumble; for I am belle!  For once in my life I know what it feels like to be a pretty woman.  My uninteresting flax-hair is hidden.  Above the lowness of my brow there towers a great white erection, giving me height and dignity, while high aloft a little cap of ancient lace and soft pink roses daintily perches.  On my cheeks there is a vivid yet delicate color; and my really respectable eyes are emphasized and accentuated by the dark line beneath them.  To tell you the truth, I cannot take my eyes off myself.  It is delightful to be pretty!  I am simpering at myself over my left shoulder, and heartily joining in my maid’s encomiums on myself, when the door opens, and Roger enters.  For the first instant I really think that he does not recognize me.  Then—­

“Nancy!” he exclaims, in a tone of the most utter and thorough astonishment—­“is it Nancy?”

“Nancy, at your service!” reply I, with undisguised elation, looking eagerly at him, with my blackened eyes, to see what he will say next.

“But—­what—­has—­happened—­to you?” he says, slowly, looking at me exhaustively from top to toe—­from the highest summit of my floured head to the point of my buckled shoes.  “What have you got yourself up like this for?”

“To please Mr. Parker,” reply I, breaking into a laugh of excitement.  “But I have killed two birds with one stone; I have pleased myself too!  Did you ever see any thing so nice as I look?” (unable any longer to wait for the admiration which is so justly my due).

“Not often!” he answers, with emphasis.

We had parted rather formally—­rather en delicatesse—­this morning, but we both seem to have forgotten this.

“I must not dance much!” say I, anxiously turning again to the glass, and closely examining my complexion—­“must I?—­or my rouge will run!”

After a moment—­

“You must be sure to tell me if I grow to look at all smeary, and I will run up-stairs at once, and put some more on.”