“Oh, Nigel!” cried Rosy woefully.  She could not think of anything more to say than, “Oh, Nigel!”

“I am sorry to say it is true,” he replied loftily.  That she was an American and a New Yorker was being impressed upon poor little Lady Anstruthers in a new way—­somehow as if the mere cold statement of the fact put a fine edge of sarcasm to any remark.  She was of too innocent a loyalty to wish that she was neither the one nor the other, but she did wish that Nigel was not so prejudiced against the places and people she cared for so much.

She was sitting in her stateroom enfolded in a dressing gown covered with cascades of lace, tied with knots of embroidered ribbon, and her maid, Hannah, who admired her greatly, was brushing her fair long hair with a gold-backed brush, ornamented with a monogram of jewels.

If she had been a French duchess of a piquant type, or an English one with an aquiline nose, she would have been beyond criticism; if she had been a plump, over-fed woman, or an ugly, ill-natured, gross one, she would have looked vulgar, but she was a little, thin, fair New Yorker, and though she was not beyond criticism—­if one demanded high distinction—­she was pretty and nice to look at.  But Nigel Anstruthers would not allow this to her.  His own tailors’ bills being far in arrears and his pocket disgustingly empty, the sight of her ingenuous sumptuousness and the gay, accustomed simpleness of outlook with which she accepted it as her natural right, irritated him and roused his venom.  Bills would remain unpaid if she was permitted to spend her money on this sort of thing without any consideration for the requirements of other people.

He inhaled the air and made a gesture of distaste.

“This sachet business is rather overpowering,” he said.  “It is the sort of thing a woman should be particularly discreet about.”

“Oh, Nigel!” cried the poor girl agitatedly.  “Hannah, do go and call the steward to open the windows.  Is it really strong?” she implored as Hannah went out.  “How dreadful.  It’s only orris and I didn’t know Hannah had put it in the trunks.”

“My dear Rosalie,” with a wave of the hand taking in both herself and her dressing case, “it is all too strong.”

“All—­wh—­what?” gaspingly.

“The whole thing.  All that lace and love knot arrangement, the gold-backed brushes and scent bottles with diamonds and rubies sticking in them.”

“They—­they were wedding presents.  They came from Tiffany’s.  Everyone thought them lovely.”

“They look as if they belonged to the dressing table of a French woman of the demi-monde.  I feel as if I had actually walked into the apartment of some notorious Parisian soubrette.”

Rosalie Vanderpoel was a clean-minded little person, her people were of the clean-minded type, therefore she did not understand all that this ironic speech implied, but she gathered enough of its significance to cause her to turn first red and then pale and then to burst into tears.  She was crying and trying to conceal the fact when Hannah returned.  She bent her head and touched her eyes furtively while her toilette was completed.