ked up in odd corners of the
world, things that have a story and a meaning. Biddy got me these
turquoises in Tibet: that is a devil charm: isn't that jade delicious? I
think I like Chinese things best of all."

She threw a string of cloudy amber round Jean's neck and cried, "My
dear, how it becomes you. It brings out all the golden lights in your
hair and eyes."

Jean sat forward in her chair and looked at her reflection in the glass
with a pleased smile.

"I do like dressing-up," she confessed. "Pretty things are a great
temptation to me. I'm afraid if I had money I would spend a lot in
adorning my vile body."

"I simply don't know," said Pamela, "how people who don't care for
clothes get through their lives. Clothes are a joy to the prosperous, a
solace to the unhappy, and an interest always--even to old age. I knew a
dear old lady of ninety-four whose chief diversion was to buy a new
bonnet. She would sit before the mirror discarding model after model
because they were 'too old' for her. One would have thought it difficult
to find anything too old for ninety-four."

Jean laughed, but shook her head.

"Doesn't it seem to you rather awful to care about bonnets at
ninety-four?"

"Not a bit," said Pamela. She was powdering her face as she spoke. "I
like to see old people holding on, not losing interest in their
appearance, making a brave show to the end.... Did you never see anyone
use powder before, Jean? Your eyes in the glass look so surprised."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Jean, in great confusion, "I didn't mean
to stare--" She hastily averted her eyes.

Pamela looked at her with an amused smile.

"There's nothing actively immoral about powdering one's nose, you know,
Jean. Did Great-aunt Alison tell you it was wrong?"

"Great-aunt Alison never talked about such things," Jean said, flushing
hotly. "I don't think it's wrong, but I don't see that it's an
improvement. I couldn't take any pleasure in myself if my face were made
up."

Pamela swung round on her chair and laid her hands on Jean's shoulders.

"Jean," she said, "you're within an ace of being a prig. It's only the
freckles on your little unpowdered nose, and the yellow lights in your
eyes, and the way your hair curls up at the ends that save you.
Remember, please, that three-and-twenty with a perfect complexion has no
call to reprove her elders. Just wait till you come to forty years."

"Oh," said Jean, "it's absurd of you to talk like tha