Shelookedlongatherfaceinthemirror，studyingwithafearfulinterestthelittlehardlinesandmarkingstherebeneaththeirlightcoatingofpowder。Sheexaminedthecunningtouchesofcolouringmatterhereandthereinherfronthair。Weretheycunningenough？
Didtheydeceive？Theyseemedtohersuddenlytostareout。Shefingeredandsmoothedtheslightloosenessandfulnessoftheskinbelowherchin。Shestretchedherself，andpassedherhandsdownoverherwholeform，searchingasitwereforslackness，orthickness。Andshehadthebitterthought:’I’mallout。I’mdoingallIcan。’ThelinesofalittlepoemForthadshowedherwentthrummingthroughherhead:
\"Time，youoldgipsymanWillyounotstayPutupyourcaravanJustforaday？\"
Whatmorecouldshedo？Hedidnotliketoseeherlipsreddened。
Shehadmarkedhisdisapprovals，watchedhimwipehismouthafterakiss，whenhethoughtshecouldn’tseehim。’Ineed’nt！’shethought。’Noel’slipsarenoredder，really。WhathasshebetterthanI？Youth——dewonthegrass！’Thatdidn’tlastlong！Butlongenoughto\"doherin\"ashersoldier—menwouldsay。And，suddenlysherevoltedagainstherself，againstFort，againstthischilledandfoggycountry;feltafiercenostalgiaforAfricansun，andtheAfricanflowers;thehappy—go—lucky，hand—to—mouthexistenceofthosefiveyearsbeforethewarbegan。HighConstantiaatgrapeharvest！