this beauty went any of the coolness or abrupt languor with which the
modern young hide their eagerness.

Mary Rochefort was quite simple beneath her habitual reserve; frank and
appealing and even humorous at times, as if startled out of her usual
mood of reflective quiet by some bit of wit, slowly apprehended, too
good to be overlooked. Mrs. Ennis watched with a sidelong glance the
effect of her entrance upon Burnaby. Madame de Rochefort! How absurd! To
call this white, tall, slim child madame! She admired rather enviously
the gown of shimmering dark blue, the impeccability of adolescence. Over
the girl's white shoulder, too much displayed, Pollen peered at Burnaby
with the vague, hostile smile of the guest not yet introduced to a guest
of similar sex.

"Late as usual!" he announced. "Mimi kept me!" His manner was subtly
domestic.

"You're really on the stroke of the clock," said Mrs. Ennis. "Madame de
Rochefort--Mr. Burnaby--Mr. Pollen." She laughed abruptly, as if a
thought had just occurred to her. "Mr. Burnaby," she explained to the
girl, "is the last surviving specimen of the American male--he has all
the ancient national virtues. Preserved, I suppose, because he spends
most of his time in Alaska, or wherever it is. I particularly wanted you
to meet him."

Burnaby flushed and laughed uncertainly. "I object--" he began.

The fresh-colored man servant entered with a tray of cocktails. Madame
de Rochefort exclaimed delightedly. "I'm so glad," she said. "Nowadays
one fatigues oneself before dinner by wondering whether there will be