The Countess snuffed out her cigarette daintily upon the ash tray.
"Can one love in vain? Perhaps.
/*
_"'Aimer pour être aimé, c'est de l'homme,
Aimer pour aimer, c'est Presque de l'ange.'"
*/
"I'm afraid I'm not that kind of an angel."
Hilda Ashhurst laughed.
"Olga is."
"Olga!" exclaimed Hermia with a glance of inquiry.
"Haven't you heard? She has thrown her young affections away upon that owl-like nondescript who has been doing her portrait."
"I can't believe it."
"It's true," said the Countess calmly. "I am quite mad about him. He has the mind of a philosopher, the soul of a child, the heart of a woman—"