And the answer, too, was backed by the centuries:
"I know it; but I couldn't help it. Don't be angry!"
"You know," said Sophy with a little tremulous laugh, "I'm very, very ugly—when it isn't moonlight."
"Paris," spake Max Tack, diplomat, "is so full of medium-lookers who think they're pretty, and of pretty ones who think they're beauties, that it sort of rests my jaw and mind to be with some one who hasn't any fake notions to feed. They're all right; but give me a woman with brains every time." Which was a lie!
They drove home down the Bois—the cool, spacious, tree-bordered Bois—and through the Champs Élysées. Because he was an artist in his way, and because every passing fiacre revealed the same picture, Max Tack sat very near her and looked very tender and held her hand in his. It would have raised a laugh at Broadway and Forty-second. It was quite, quite sane and very comforting in Paris.
At the door of the hotel:
"I'm sailing Wednesday," said Max Tack. "You—you won't forget me?"
"Oh, no—no!"
"You'll call me up or run into the office when you get to New York?"
"Oh, yes!"