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Goldsmith was paying for the others."
"Why not fake the other one too?" he asked.
"It couldn't be done," said Rose decisively. "There's no idea in it, you
see, that just jumps out and catches you. It gets its style from being
so--reserved and so just exactly right. And of course that's true of the
girl herself. She's perfect, just about. But it's a perfection that it's
awfully easy to kill. She kills it herself by the way she does her
hair."
Buzzing around in the back of John Galbraith's mind was an unworded
protest against the way Rose had just killed her own beauty with a thick
white veil so nearly opaque that all it let him see of her face was an
intermittent gleam of her eyes. Keenly aware--a good deal more keenly
aware than he was willing to admit--of the sort of splendor which, but
for the veil, he'd be looking at now, a splendor which nothing short of
a complete mask could hide, he was not quite in the mood to wax
enthusiastic over a beauty so fragile as that of the girl they had been
talking about.


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