This particular young face, however, stirred her with those half-
painful, half-pleasurable emotions which certain perfumes awake in
us--vague reminders of joys lost or unattained, of dreams broken or
unrealised. Added to this, it reminded her of someone she had known,
yet she could not place the resemblance.
"Oh, to be young and beautiful like that!" she sighed as she buried
her face in her pillow that night. "And since I cannot be, if only
Alice had that girl's face."
And because Alice did not have it, the Baroness went to sleep with a
feeling of bitter resentment against its possessor, the beautiful
young organist of St Blank's.