"That's a beauty, isn't it?" said Rose, following her gaze. "Every
apartment in that building has its own garage that you get to with an
elevator."
The actress nodded. "You Americans do that;" she said, "better than any
one else in the world. The--surfaces of your lives are to marvel at."
"But with nothing inside?" asked Rose. "Is that what you mean? Is--that
what you mean about--American women, that you said you'd tell me?"
Madame Greville took her time about answering. "They are an enigma to
me," she said, "I confess it. I have never seen such women anywhere, as
these upper-class Americans. They are beautiful, clever, they know how
to dress. For the first hour, or day, or week, of an acquaintance, they
have a charm quite incomparable. And, up to a certain point, they
exercise it. Your _jeunes filles_ are amazing. All over the world, men
go mad about them. But when they marry ..." She finished the sentence
with the ghost of a shrug, and turned to Rose. "Can you account for
them? Were you wondering at them, too, with those great eyes of yours?
_Alors_! Are we puzzled by the same thing? What is it, to you, they
lack?"
Rose stirred a little uneasily.
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