CORINNA GOES TO WAR "Yes, I've had a mean life," thought Corinna, while she stood before her mirror carefully placing a patch on her cheek.

In her narrow gown of black velvet, with the silver heels of her slippers shining beneath the transparent draperies, she had more than ever the look of festival, of October splendour.

If her beauty had lost in roundness and softness, it had gained immeasurably in authority, in that air of having been a part of great events, of historic moments which clung to her like a legend.
Romance and mystery were in her smile; and yet what had life held for her, she mused now, except the frustrated hope, the blighted fruit, the painted lily?
Her beauty had brought her nothing that was not tawdry, nothing that was not a gaudy imitation of happiness.

She had given herself for what?
For the shadow of reality, for the tinted shreds of a damaged illusion.

The past, in spite of her many triumphs, had been worse than tragic; it had been comic--since it had left her beggared.
Looking back upon it now she saw that it had lacked even the mournful dignity of a broken heart.
"I have had a mean life; but it isn't over yet, and I may make something better of the rest of it," she thought.