They were coming to the surface
after a period of submersion.
Susan fastened her mirror to the twig on an alder trunk and ransacked
her store of finery. It yielded up a new red merino bodice, and the
occasion was great enough to warrant breaking into her reserve of
hairpins. Then she experimented with her hair, parted and rolled it in
the form that had been the fashion in that long dead past--was it
twenty years ago?--when she had been a girl in Rochester. She
inspected her reflected image with a fearful curiosity, as if expecting
to find gray hairs and wrinkles. It was pleasant to see that she
looked the same--a trifle thinner may be. And as she noted that her
cheeks were not as roundly curved, the fullness of her throat had
melted to a more muscular, less creased and creamy firmness, she felt a
glow of satisfaction. For in those distant days--twenty-five years ago
it must be--she had worried because she was a little _too_ fat. No one
could say that now. She stole a look over her shoulder to make sure
she was not watched--it seemed an absurdly vain thing to do--and turned
back the neck of her blouse.
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