Hermia.

"Pouf! my dear," said the Countess with a wave of her cigarette. "I
simply do not believe you. A man is never so useful as when he moves
in the dark. Women were born to mystify. Some of us do it one
way--some in another. If you wear mannish clothes and a Bath-bun, it
is because they become you extraordinarily well and because they form a
disguise more complete and mystifying than anything else you could
assume."

"A disguise!"

"Exactly. You wish to create the impression that you are indifferent
to men--that men, by the same token, are indifferent to you." The
Countess Olga smiled. "Your disguise is complete, _mon
enfant_--except for one thing-- your femininity--which refuses to be
extinguished. You do not hate men. If you did you would not go to so
much trouble to look like them. One day you will love very
badly--very madly. And then--" the Countess paused and raised her
eyebrows and her hands expressively. "You're like me. It's simple
enough," she continued. "You have everything you want, including men
who amuse but do not inspire. Obviously, you will only be satisfied
with something you can't get, my dear."

"Horrors! What a bird of ill-omen you are. And I shall love in vain?"

The Countess snuffed out her cigarette daintily upon the ash tray.

"Can one love in vain? Perhaps.