"That's a pose. All Westerners adopt it. To consent to be like other people would be to confess a weakness."
"I like him; but then"—the Baroness yawned politely—"all Americans are attractive. Mrs. Wray I find less interesting."
"Naturally, madame. You are a woman." Then, after a pause, "It is a pity she's getting herself talked about."
"Really? That's encouraging—with Monsieur Bent?"
"Oh, yes—they met in the West—the phenix of an old romance."
"How delightful! Monsieur Jeff doesn't care?"
"Oh, no," significantly. "He has his reasons."
The door-knocker clanged, and Mrs. Rumsen entered, escorting two débutantes, who paused on the threshold of the studio gurglingly, their eyes round with timidity and a precocious hopefulness of imminent deviltries.
"So kind of you, Mrs. Rumsen. Good morning, Miss Van Alstyne—Miss Champney" (with Jack Perot it was always morning until six of the afternoon). "You've met the Baroness?"
"How too thweetly perfect!"