An
odd figure, tall, spare, loosely jointed, surmounted by a pale parchment
face, which showed a somewhat protruding chin, a long and delicate nose,
and fine brows under a strange overhanging mass of fair hair. He had the
dissipated, battered look of certain Vandyck cavaliers, and certainly no
handsomeness of any accepted kind. But as Ashe well knew, the aspect and
personality of Geoffrey Cliffe possessed for innumerable men and women,
in English "society" and out of it, a fascination it was easier to laugh
at than to explain.
Lady Kitty had eyes certainly for no one else. When he spoke of
"defeating" her, she laughed her defiance, and a glance of battle passed
between her and Cliffe. Cliffe, still holding her with his look,
considered what new ground to break.
"What is the subject?" said Ashe.
"That men are vainer than women," said Kitty. "It's so true, it's hardly
worth saying--isn't it? Mr. Cliffe talks nonsense about our love of
clothes--and of being admired. As if that were vanity! Of course it's
only our sense of duty."
"Duty?" cried Cliffe, twisting his mustache. "To whom?"
"To the men, of course! If we didn't like clothes, if we didn't like
being admired--where would you be?"
"Personally, I could get on," said Cliffe.
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