stamped all over him, and there was, as well, a pleasing sense of
reliability which gained immediate confidence. With the sort of
shock one gets on going into the fresh air from a steam-heated room,
she realized the contrast between these two.

There is always something as unreal about handsome men as there is
about Japanese gardens. Palgrave's hair was so scrupulously sleek
and wiglike, his features so well-balanced and well-chosen, his
wide-set eyes so large and long-lashed, and his fair, soft mustache
so miraculously precise. His clothes, too, were a degree more than
perfect. They were so right as to be a little freakish because they
attracted as much attention as if they were badly cut. He was born
for tea fights and winter resorts, to listen with a distrait half-
smile to the gushing adulation of the oh-my-dear type of women.

He attracted Joan. She admired his assurance and polish and manners.
With these three things even a man with a broken nose and a head
bald as an egg can carry a beautiful woman to the altar. He was
something new to her, too, and she found much to amuse her in his
way of expressing himself. He observed, and sometimes crystallized
his observations with a certain neatness. Also, and she made no
bones about owning to it, his obvious attention flattered her. All
the same, she was in the mood just then for Martin. He went better
with the time of year, and there was something awfully companionable
about his sudden laugh. She would have hailed his appearance at that
moment with an outdoor cry.

It was bad luck for Palgrave, because he now knew definitely that in
Joan he had found the girl who was to give him the great emotion.