She looked up and drew in her breath sharply. Burnaby was sitting forward in his chair, staring at her with the curious, far-sighted stare she remembered was characteristic of him when his interest was suddenly and thoroughly aroused. It was as if he were looking through the person to whom he was talking to some horizon beyond. It was a trifle uncanny, unless you were accustomed to the trick. "What's the matter?" she asked. She had the feeling that back of her some one she could not see was standing. Burnaby smiled. "Nothing," he said. 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. I imagine a woman going about things the wrong way could break her heart on him like waves on a crystal rock. I think it has been a question of fire meeting crystal, and, when it finds that the crystal is difficult to warm, turning back upon itself. I said waves, didn't I? Well, I don't care if my metaphors are mixed. It's tragic, anyhow. And the principal tragedy is that Blais Rochefort isn't really cold--at least, I don't think he would be if properly approached--he is merely beautifully lucid and intelligent and exacting in a way no American understands, least of all a petted girl who has no family and who is very rich. He expects, you see, an equal lucidity from his wife. He's not to be won over by the fumbling and rather selfish and pretty little tricks that are all most of us know. But Mary, I think, would have learned if she had only held on. Now, I'm afraid, she's losing heart. Hard-faced child!" Mrs. Ennis grew indignant again. "Be careful my friend; even you might find her dangerously pathetic." Burnaby's eyes were placidly amused. "Thanks," he observed. "You've told me all I wanted to know."