"And she's quite what you call a professional beauty, isn't she?" asked Van Buren with great relish.
"My dear fellow, I don't call anyone a professional beauty, and you mustn't either. There's no such thing. I can't think how in America you get hold of these prehistoric phrases! The expression must have been dead long before either of us was born!... Still, she is a beauty all the same."
"Is that so? Mind you, Harry, there's something very attractive about a blonde, too. To me golden hair and blue eyes suggest gentleness and womanliness.... What is Mrs. Wyburn like?"
"Well, she's rather like an angel on a Christmas card, with her hair down—I mean she was, as a little girl," said Harry quickly. "Now she's considered like 'Love among the Roses' by Burne-Jones."
"Do you really mean that, Harry? Why, she must be more beautiful than Miss de Freyne!"
"I wouldn't worry about her, if I were you," Harry said.
"Why not, Harry?"
"Well, you see she's got a husband," said Harry, looking at the ceiling as he puffed his cigarette.
"And a cousin," replied Van Buren with unexpected quickness. He then burst out laughing.