Sylvia Thesiger was at this time seventeen, although her mother dressed her to look younger, and even then overdressed her like a toy.  It was of a piece with the nature of the girl that, in this matter as in the rest, she made no protest.  She foresaw the scene, the useless scene, which would follow upon her protest, exclamations against her ingratitude, abuse for her impertinence, and very likely a facile shower of tears at the end; and her dignity forbade her to enter upon it.  She just let her mother dress her as she chose, and she withdrew just a little more into the secret chamber of her dreams.  She sat now looking steadily out of the window, with her eyes uplifted and aloof, in a fashion which had become natural to her, and her mother was seized with a pang of envy at the girl’s beauty.  For beauty Sylvia Thesiger had, uncommon in its quality rather than in its degree.  From the temples to the round point of her chin the contour of her face described a perfect oval.  Her forehead was broad and low and her hair, which in color was a dark chestnut, parted in the middle, whence it rippled in two thick daring waves to the ears, a fashion which noticeably became her, and it was gathered behind into a plait which lay rather low upon the nape of her neck.  Her eyes were big, of a dark gray hue and very quiet in their scrutiny; her mouth, small and provoking.  It provoked, when still, with the promise of a very winning smile, and the smile itself was not so frequent but that it provoked a desire to summon it to her lips again.  It had a way of hesitating, as though Sylvia were not sure whether she would smile or not; and when she had made up her mind, it dimpled her cheeks and transfigured her whole face, and revealed in her tenderness and a sense of humor.  Her complexion was pale, but clear, her figure was slender and active, but without angularities, and she was of the middle height.  Yet the quality which the eye first remarked in her was not so much her beauty, as a certain purity, a look almost of the Madonna, a certainty, one might say, that even in the circle in which she moved, she had kept herself unspotted from the world.

Thus she looked as she sat by the carriage window.  But as the train drew near to Amberieu, the air brightened and the sunlight ministered to her beauty like a careful handmaid, touching her pale cheeks to a rosy warmth, giving a luster to her hair, and humaning her to a smile.  Sylvia sat forward a little, as though to meet the sunlight, then she turned toward the carriage and saw her mother’s eyes intently watching her.

“You are awake?” she said in surprise.

“Yes, child.  You woke me.”

“I am very sorry.  I was as quiet as I could be.  I could not sleep.”

“Why?” Mrs. Thesiger repeated the question with insistence.  “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“We are traveling to Chamonix,” replied Sylvia.  “I have been thinking of it all night,” and though she smiled in all sincerity, Mrs. Thesiger doubted.  She lay silent for a little while.  Then she said, with a detachment perhaps slightly too marked: