The Riddle and Other Stories/The Looking Glass

THE LOOKING-GLASSFOR an hour or two in the afternoon, Miss Lennox had always made it a rule to retire to her own room for a little rest, so that for this brief interval, at any rate, Alice was at liberty to do just what she pleased with herself. The “just what she pleased,” no doubt, was a little limited in range; and “with herself” was at best no very vast oasis amid its sands.
She might, for example, like Miss Lennox, rest, too, if she pleased. Miss Lennox prided herself on her justice.
But then, Alice could seldom sleep in the afternoon because of her troublesome cough. She might at a pinch write letters, but they would need to be nearly all of them addressed to imaginary correspondents. And not even the most romantic of young human beings can write on indefinitely to one who vouchsafes no kind of an answer. The choice in fact merely amounted to that between being “in” or “out” (in any sense), and now that the severity of the winter had abated, Alice much preferred the solitude of the garden to the vacancy of the house.
With rain came an extraordinary beauty to the narrow garden—its trees drenched, refreshed, and glittering at break of evening, its early flowers stooping pale

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