She waited until Enid had gone out to the theatre that evening, and then, when she and Miss Mell were alone together in their candle-lighted studio, with a fire burning and a great air of peace and comfort, she said:
“Isn’t that Mr. Iverson—queer?”
“Not so queer as he pretends to be,” she answered, which gave Rosaleen very little help.
“Don’t you think he’s—sort of like Enid?”
“Oh, mercy, no!” cried Miss Mell. “What makes you think that, Rosaleen?”
Rosaleen couldn’t quite explain.
“They’re both so—they’re such—they talk——”
“They’re both very rude, if that’s what you mean. But Enid’s rude because she’s so honest, and Iverson’s rude as a pose. He’s a famous poseur.”
That was Greek to Rosaleen. Miss Mell saw her puzzled frown and expatiated.
“I’ve met him before,” she said. “He doesn’t remember me, though. I’ve seen him two or three times. And I’ve heard a great deal about him. He’s a remarkable man—in some ways. But a poseur.... He affects that bluntness, but he’s not sincere.... I don’t think anyone could be less like Enid. To begin with, he hasn’t any self-control. They say he has the most terrific temper. He quarrels with everyone. And he’s perfectly reckless; he doesn’t care what he does. I’ve heard the most extraordinary stories about him. He’s like a madman. And yet very greedy. He runs after people with money. While Enid—but you must know Enid a little by this time. She’s never reckless. She always knows what she’s doing, and she’d rather cut her heart out than do anything to injure her career. And as for toadying, she couldn’t. She cares no more for money than a baby.”