The rooms had a new
appearance; sunlight seemed to penetrate to every shadowed comer;
colours were brighter, too familiar objects became interesting. The
dining-room table, commonly so uninviting, gleamed as for a
festival. Irene's eyes fell on everything and diffused her own happy
spirit. Irene had an excellent appetite; everyone enjoyed the meal.
This girl could not but bestow something of herself on all with whom
she came together; where she felt liking, her influence was
incalculable.
"How much better you look than when I last saw you." she said to her
aunt. "Ewell evidently suits you."
And at once Mrs. Hannaford felt that she was stronger, younger, than
she had thought. Yes, she felt better than for a long time, and
Ewell was exactly suited to her health.
"Is that pastel yours, Olga? Admirable! The best thing of yours I
ever saw."
And Olga, who had thought her pastel worthless, saw all at once that
it really was not bad; she glowed with gratification.
The cousins were almost of an age, of much the same stature; but
Olga had a pallid tint, tawny hair, and bluish eyes, whilst Irene's
was a warm complexion, her hair of dark-brown, and her eyes of
hazel. As efficient human beings, there could be no comparison
between them; Olga looked frail, despondent, inclined to sullenness,
whilst Irene impressed one as in perfect health, abounding in gay
vitality, infinite in helpful resource.
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