"It's none of our business, anyway."

Burnaby smiled calmly. "I quite agree with you," he said. "I imagine
that a Frenchwoman, married for a while, is much better able to conduct
her life in this respect than even the most experienced of us."

"She isn't French," said Mrs. Ennis; "she's American. And she's only
been married five years. She's just a child--twenty-six."

"Oh!" ejaculated Burnaby. "One of those hard-faced children! I
understand--Newport, Palm Beach, cocktails--"

His voice was cut across by Mrs. Ennis's indignant retort. "You don't in
the least!" she said. "She's not one of those hard-faced children; she's
lovely--and I've come to the conclusion that she's pathetic. I'm
beginning to rather hate this man Pollen. Back of it all are subtleties
of personality difficult to fathom. You should know Blais Rochefort. I
imagine a woman going about things the wrong way could break her heart
on him like waves on a crystal rock. I think it has been a question of
fire meeting crystal, and, when it finds that the crystal is difficult
to warm, turning back upon itself. I said waves, didn't I? Well, I don't
care if my metaphors are mixed. It's tragic, anyhow. And the principal
tragedy is that Blais Rochefort isn't really cold--at least, I don't
think he would be if properly approached--he is merely beautifully lucid
and intelligent and exacting in a way no American understands, least of
all a petted girl who has no family and who is very rich. He expects,
you see, an equal lucidity from his wife. He's not to be won over by the
fumbling and rather selfish and pretty little tricks that are all most
of us know. But Mary, I think, would have learned if she had only held
on. Now, I'm afraid, she's losing heart. Hard-faced child!" Mrs. Ennis