He sank back into his chair. "That's
an odd name--the name of this alluring fellow of yours, isn't it? What
did you say it was--Pollen?"
"Yes. Robert Pollen. Why, do you know him?"
"No." Burnaby shook his head. He leaned over and lit a cigarette. "You
don't mind, do you?" he asked. He raised his eyes. "So he's conjuring
this Madame de Rochefort, is he?" he concluded.
Mrs. Ennis flushed. "I never said anything of the kind!" she protested.
"It's none of our business, anyway."
Burnaby smiled calmly. "I quite agree with you," he said. "I imagine
that a Frenchwoman, married for a while, is much better able to conduct
her life in this respect than even the most experienced of us."
"She isn't French," said Mrs. Ennis; "she's American. And she's only
been married five years. She's just a child--twenty-six."
"Oh!" ejaculated Burnaby. "One of those hard-faced children! I
understand--Newport, Palm Beach, cocktails--"
His voice was cut across by Mrs. Ennis's indignant retort. "You don't in
the least!" she said. "She's not one of those hard-faced children; she's
lovely--and I've come to the conclusion that she's pathetic. I'm
beginning to rather hate this man Pollen. Back of it all are subtleties
of personality difficult to fathom. You should know Blais Rochefort.
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