It even makes your own prettiness unimportant."

"It is unimportant--"

"Partly because you make it so. You don't care. You don't think about
it, _voilˆ tout_."

"Why should I think about it? I can't change it."

"Oh, yes, you can. Even a homely woman who is clever can make herself
beautiful, a beautiful woman--_Dieu_! There is nothing in the world
that a clever, beautiful woman cannot be."

"I'm not clever or--"

"I shall not flatter you, _cara mia_. You are--er--quite handsome
enough. If you cared for the artistic you could go through a _salon_
like the _Piper of Hamelin_ with a queue of gentlemen reaching back
into the corridors of infinity. Instead of which you wear mannish
clothes, do your hair in a Bath-bun, and permit men the privilege of
equality. Oh, la, la! A man is no longer useful when one ceases to
mystify him."

She strolled to the window, sniffed at Trevvy Morehouse's roses, helped
herself to a cigarette and sat down.

Hermia was not inartistic and she resented the imputation. It was only
that her art and Olga's differed by the breadth of an ocean.

"For me, when a man becomes mystified he ceases to be useful," laughed