"Oh, of course she makes up," she retorted, "they all do that—men like it."
His puzzling smile dwelt on her for an instant. "Well, I'd rather a woman would be downright bad any day," he said, "it shows less."
"But is she bad?" asked Gerty, almost panting in her pursuit of information. "That's what I want to know—of course she's artificial on the face of it."
"On the face of her, you mean," he corrected, and concluded promptly, "but I've never said anything against a woman in my life and it's too late to begin just as I'm getting bald. Doesn't it suffice that the Lady has kept her pipe tuned to the general melody?"
"You mean she's careful?"
"I mean nothing—do you?"
With a determined movement she sprang into a sitting position, and drawing the cushions beneath her arm, rested her elbow, bare under the flowing sleeve, upon the luxurious pile of down. He saw the dent made by her figure in the green satin covers, and it gave him a sensation of pleasure while he watched it fade out slowly.
"I—oh, I mean a great deal," she responded in her reckless voice, "I'm as clear, I've always said, as running water, and what you mistake for flippancy is merely my philosophy."
"A philosophy!" he laughed, "then you've gone too deep for me."
"Oh, it isn't deep—it's only this," she rejoined gayly, "he laughs best who laughs most."