"Poor Miss Filberte! Well, then, suppose me disfigured and singing better
than ever--what man would listen to me?"

"I should."

"For half a minute. Then you'd say, 'Poor wretch, she's lost her voice!'
No, no, it's my face that sings to the world, my face the world loves to
listen to, my face that makes me friends and--enemies."

She looked into his eyes with impertinent directness.

"It's my face that's made Mr. Robin Pierce deceive himself into the
belief that he only worships women for their souls, their lovely natures,
their--"

"Do you know that in a way you are a singularly modest woman?" he
suddenly interrupted.

"Am I? How?"

"In thinking that you hold people only by your appearance, that your
personality has nothing to say in the matter."

"I am modest, but not so modest as that."

"Well, then?"

"Personality is a crutch, a pretty good crutch; but so long as men are
men they will put crutches second and--something else first. Yes, I know
I'm a little bit vulgar, but everybody in London is."