"No, it's more than that, I think. It's the woman herself. She is
suggestive somehow. She makes one's imagination work. Of course she is
beautiful."

"And she thinks that is everything. She would part with her voice, her
intelligence--she is very intelligent in the quick, frivolous fashion
that is necessary for London--that personal fascination you speak of,
everything rather than her white-rose complexion and the wave in her
hair."

"Really, really?"

"Yes. She thinks the outside everything. She believes the world is
governed, love is won and held, happiness is gained and kept by the husk
of things. She told me only to-night that it is her face which sings to
us all, not her voice; that were she to sing as well and be an ugly woman
we should not care to listen to her."

"H'm! H'm!"

"Absurd, isn't it?"

"What will be the approach of old age to her?"

There was a suspicion of bitterness in his voice.

"The coming of the King of Terrors," said Pierce. "But she cannot hear
his footsteps yet."

"They are loud enough in some ears. Ah, we, are at your door already?"