Here Esther's curiosity did whip her on. She had to ask:
"How does he look?"
"Oh, youngish," said Madame. "Rather flabby. Obstinate. Ugly, too."
"Ugly? Plain, do you mean?"
"No. American for ugly—obstinate, sore-headed. He's hardened. He was rather a silly boy, I remember. Had enthusiasms. Much in love. He isn't now. He's no use for women."
Esther looked at her in an arrested thoughtfulness. Madame Beattie could have laughed. She had delivered the challenge Jeff had not sent, and Esther was accepting it, wherever it might lead, to whatever duelling ground. Esther couldn't help that. A challenge was a challenge. She had to answer. It was a necessity of type. Madame Beattie saw the least little flickering thought run into her eyes, and knew she was involuntarily charting the means of summons, setting up the loom, as it were, to weave the magic web. She got up, took her hat, gave her toupée a little smack with the hand, and unhinged it worse than ever.
"You'll have to give him up," she said.
"Give him up!" flamed Esther. "Do you think I want—"
There she paused and Madame Beattie supplied temperately:
"No matter what you want. You couldn't have him."