Doomsday by Warwick Deeping

On that New Year's Eve, from the warm firelit hollow of the Hill House library Mary saw the sun set over the park. It vanished as a redness in a mass of amethyst cloud, outlining for a space the figure of the dancing faun, and giving a golden bloom to the grass. A bluish gloom flowed in, and the figure of the faun grew dim. She sat in front of the fire and felt regal. Even the sunset had coloured the day for her, and added to the distinction of the scenery. A pleasant activity made itself felt in the house. Val was coming down by the five o'clock train. In an hour or so she would go up to dress.

Yes, that is how she would have described her mood of the moment; she felt regal. Success shone upon her forehead. She saw herself the centre of a gay crowd, exquisitely gowned, receiving homage, conscious of envy. She alone among all the women would wear no mask, for a hostess could not be masked when she ascended her little social throne and looked brightly round. In the mirror of her own self-consciousness she was essentially Mrs. Percival Fream of Hill House. The night and the occasion were hers; she was a little dazzled by herself, in love with herself.