“Good heavens, I should think so!”
“Of course. But they can’t seem to understand that the unscrupulous are certain to exploit them––that the most honest motives––the purest––invite that certain disaster consequent on social irregularities.
“Palla, so far, is all hot-headed enthusiast––hot-hearted theorist. But I remember that she did take the white veil once. And, as I tell you, I shall try to keep her within range of my uneasy vision. Because,” she added, “she’s really a perfect darling.”
“She is a most attractive girl,” said Helen slowly; “but I think she’d be more attractive still if she were happily married.”
“And had children.”
Their eyes met, unsmilingly, yet in silent accord.
Their respective cars awaited them at the Ritz and took them in different directions. But all the afternoon Helen Shotwell’s mind was occupied with what she now knew of Palla Dumont. And she realised that she wished the girl were back in Russia in spite of all her charm and fascination––yes, on account of it.
Because this lovely, burning asteroid might easily cross the narrow orbit through which her own social world spun peacefully in its orderly progress amid that metropolitan galaxy called Society.
Leila Vance was part of that galaxy. So was her own and only son. Wandering meteors that burnt so prettily might yet do damage.