Yesterday she would have believed his answer.

To-day she believed nothing he said.

She went to her room and bathed her eyes in cold water and sat down for a moment before her glass and looked at herself thoughtfully.

There she was, the same Beatrice she saw in the mirror every day, the same clear brown eyes, the same soft brown hair, the same broad, crayon-like eyebrows, the same free pose of the head.
But there was something different in the face, which she did not recognise.

There was something defiant in the eyes, and hard about the mouth, which was new to her and did not altogether please her, though she could not change it.