Left alone, Phoebe sat a moment longer, then rolled over on the bed with a kitten-like motion and, stretching her arms above her head, lay taut for a second, then relaxed suddenly.  Head tucked in the pillow, she apparently was lost in thought, for her brown eyes, slightly narrowed, stared vacantly at the frilling of the pillow-slip.  Then she gave a soft little sound that had it not been so pretty would have been a giggle, wriggled round, and slipped off the bed.  She ran to the mirror and began to take down her tumbled hair.  As she raised her arms her round breast swelled like a bird’s when it lifts its head; her bright eyes and pursed mouth, full of hairpins, were bird-like too.  She was perpetually, to the seeing eye, suggesting comparison with the animal creation; she was bird-like, mouse-like, kitten-like, anything and everything that was soft and small and obviously easy to hurt and crush physically.  That was her allure, her most noticeable quality—­that she presented unconsciously, but unmistakably, the suggestion that it would be easy to hurt her, easy and sweet.

She made trial of her hair in the fashion the new Princess had started—­drawn back a la chinoise, with a long rolled curl, known for some reason as a “repentir,” brought forward to lie over one shoulder.  Then she went to the washstand and took more care than usual over the cleansing of her hands.  That done, she deliberated whether or not to put on her grey chip hat with the pink plume that on her arrival she had flung on the bed, where it still lay.  She tried herself with it and without, then debated as to whether it looked better to give the impression of being one of the family by appearing bonnetless, or whether, on the other hand, it would not be more interesting to Ishmael if he got the impression of a visitor ... of someone who was not always about the house, who was to be seen outside.  She finally decided on the latter.  Then she sat down to wait, though the time was bound to be more than an hour, since Vassie and John-James had only now started in to Penzance in the smart new market-cart to meet the eagerly awaited arrival, Ishmael Ruan.

Downstairs Annie too had her deliberations, her changes of mind, her sudden impulses of affection and of resentment, as her ill-regulated brain had always had them.  She had not changed much in the years that had brought them past Ishmael’s eighteenth birthday.  All of worn tissues and faded tints had been hers long before, and except for an increased jerkiness she seemed the same.  In attire she had altered, and her black silk dress, with its scallops and trembling fringes, suited ill enough with her badly-arranged hair and work-worn hands.