Sunday was always a peaceful day at Chellaston.  Much that was truly godly, and much that was in truth worldly, combined together to present a very respectable show of sabbath-keeping.  The hotel shared in the sabbath quiet, especially in the afternoon, when most people were resting in their rooms.

About three o’clock Eliza was ready to go to her room on the third story to dress for the afternoon.  This process was that day important, for she put on a new black silk gown.  It was beflounced and befrilled according to the fashion of the time.  When she had arranged it to a nicety in her own room, she descended to one of the parlours to survey herself in the pier-glass.  No one was there.  The six red velvet chairs and the uniform sofa stood in perfect order round the room.  The table, with figured cloth, had a large black Bible on it as usual.  On either side of the long looking-glass was a window, in which the light of day was somewhat dulled by coarse lace curtains.  Abundance of light there was, however, for Eliza’s purpose.  She shut the door, and pushed aside the table which held the Bible, the better to show herself to herself in the looking-glass.

Eliza faced herself.  She turned and looked at herself over one shoulder; then she looked over the other shoulder.  As she did so, the curving column of her white neck was a thing a painter might have desired to look at, had he been able to take his eyes from the changeful sheen on her glossy red hair.  But there was no painter there, and Eliza was looking at the gown.  She walked to the end of the room, looking backward over her shoulder.  She walked up the room toward the mirror, observing the moving folds of the skirt as she walked.  She went aside, out of the range of the glass, and came into it again to observe the effect of meeting herself as though by chance, or rather, of meeting a young woman habited in such a black silk gown, for it was not in herself precisely that Eliza was at the moment interested.  She did not smile at herself, or meet her own eyes in the glass.  She was gravely intent upon looking as well as she could, not upon estimating how well she looked.

The examination was satisfactory.  Perhaps a woman more habituated to silk gowns and mantua-makers would have found small wrinkles in sleeve or shoulder; but Eliza was pleased.  If the gown was not perfect, it was as good a one as she was in the habit of seeing, even upon gala occasions.  And she had no intention of keeping her gown for occasions; her intention was that it should be associated with her in the ordinary mind of the place.  Now that she was fortunate enough to possess silk (and she was determined this should only be the forerunner of a succession of such gowns) people should think of her as Miss White, who wore silk in the afternoons.  She settled this as she saw how well the material became her.  Then, with grave care, she arranged a veil round the black bonnet she wore, and stood putting on new gloves preparatory to leaving the room.  Eliza was not very imaginative; but had she been disposed to foresee events, much as she might have harassed herself, she would not have been more likely to hit upon the form to be taken by the retributive fate she always vaguely feared than are the poor creatures enslaved by fearful imaginations.