I was critical of my face in the mirror. It was an oval mirror beautifully framed in intricate silver and copper mesh and the glass was unflawed. I dabbed a bit more with the flower-scented cloth dipped in the basin of cool water. The spot seemed truly to be another freckle. They were ridiculous but there they were. My eyes were blue-gray, my hair coppery-brown, not the rich hue of Gallett's, not curling as hers did waving thickly at the back but stubbornly crimped according to its own whim. But I was clean and my pale blue shirt and trousers were crisp and wrinkle free. This was the best that could be done with me and there was no point in standing here before the mirror any longer.
        In it I could see Ince. She stood at the glass doors opened to the balcony and the filmy curtains drifted out, flattened, rippled quickly, in the afternoon breeze. The balcony provided an unobstructed view of a meticulously groomed formal garden whose jeweled paths wended about the circumference or struck out in edged strokes from the fountain in the center. I could hear its gentle tune as it dropped in sweet stages through the petals of the stony orfyn flower which did raise it up.
        The sky was turquoise and cloudless. Beyond the garden walls were pointed tops of crowded teal cyprion trees. They were thick and thus were very old.
        Our suite was expansive, rich; this our common room was as cushioned as a nest with thick carpets, deep couches, piled pillows, enormous chairs, polished bowls of mounded fruits upon the tables, gleaming silver in the corners, liquid shapes of sculpted stone, and across from the door a large aquarium for our pleasure held several purple harp fish.