She had a brain, and could use it; Eleanor's praise fell upon her ears delightfully.

Then there was that little volume of English verse which Eleanor left on the table; its name, "The Golden Treasury," made her imagine it of a religious tone; she was undeceived in glancing through it.

Poetry had hitherto made no appeal to her; she did not care much for the little book.

But one day Cecily caught it up in delight, and read to her for half an hour; she affected indifference, but had in reality learnt something, and thereafter read for herself.
The two large mirrors in her room had, oddly enough, no unimportant part among the agencies working for her development.

It was almost inevitable that, in moving about, she should frequently regard her own figure.