They left Stoendyck standing in the hall, looking sentimental. "All foreigners not of the Latin race go on like that," said Val, as they drove back. "They may be scientific, or soldiers, philosophers, or musicians, but if they're Germans or Belgians or Austrians, or anything of that sort, they always get bowled over by a young girl, a blue ribbon, plumpness, or fair hair." "But I'm very thin and dark," said Daphne angrily. "I don't care if you are. You're a pretty girl, you're unmarried, you've got blue chiffon round your head--and there it is.... I don't mean Prussian officers, of course." "_They_ would appreciate _you_, I suppose you mean!" "One can't say. They'd probably take on anything." Valentia took out the little looking-glass from her motor-bag, looked at it, put it back, and added-- "Anything possible, I mean." "Go on, Val." "Go on how?" "Telling me things. You're so interesting, you know such a lot. Now, about the Latin races--wouldn't they like--er--me?" "Of course they would. But they'd like you better if you were married to Cyril or any one. Frenchmen and Italians always want their love-making or flirtations to have something in it of the nature of a _score_. They love scoring off a third person, whoever it may be,--whether it's their friend's wife, or their wife's friend, or anything." "They're not sincere, then?" "Don't be silly. If they weren't sincere, why are there nothing but unwritten-law crimes all over France and Italy? And why do Parisians think and talk of ... nothing else! They're _sincere_ all right: it's their hobby. Italians, of course, are more jealous and faithful, and Parisians are frightfully vain--there's a good deal of a sort of snobbism about it. They love to show off. That's why they're so keen on dress." "Do you think," said Daphne, with sudden anxiety, "that if you don't dress to perfection you can't keep a man's love? I _do_ hope not! I mean because when I'm married to Cyril I shan't be able to afford to wear anything at all, except a clean blouse which I shall have to iron out myself, like in _Hearth and Home_." Valentia shook her head. "Dressing to perfection doesn't make men love you, silly. It only makes women hate you. And I never have yet seen the advantage of that." "Oh, then, do Parisians want other women to hate you?" asked Daphne. Her sister hesitated. "Sometimes. Very often they don't. They want you to be admired by other people, whoever they are, men or women. But in Paris dress counts in a different sort of way--it means more--it stands for more. Oh, don't bother!" "Well, give me a straightforward Englishman!" exclaimed Daphne. "Yes, indeed!" replied Val. "That Belgian Herr, anyhow, doesn't count. I can't think why Mrs. Preb. and Miss Campbell are so much in love with him." "Isn't it funny? Why do you think it is, Val?" "Perhaps it's because he's a man. You see, they're accustomed to curates." CHAPTER XXXI AT EDGWARE