"Miss Schley happens to have some vague resemblance to you in height and
colouring. She is a clever mimic. She used to be a professional mimic."
"Really!"
"That was how she first became known."
"In America?"
"Yes."
"Why should she imitate me?"
"Have you been nice to her?"
"I don't know. Yes. Nice enough."
Robin shook his head.
"You think she dislikes me then?"
"Do women want definite reasons for half the things they do? Miss Schley
may not say to herself that she dislikes you, any more than you say to
yourself that you dislike her. Nevertheless--"
"We should never get on. No."
"Consider yourselves enemies--for no reasons, or secret woman's reasons.
It's safer."
Lady Holme looked down the gallery again. Miss Schley's fair head was
bending forward to some invisible person.
"And the mimicry?" she asked, turning again to Robin.
"Can only be applied to mannerisms, to the ninety-ninth part, the
inconsiderable fraction of your charm. Miss Schley could never imitate
the hidden woman, the woman who sings, the woman who laughs at, denies
herself when she is not singing."
"But no one cares for her--if she exists."
There was a hint of secret bitterness in her voice when she said that.
"Give her a chance--and find out. But you know already that numbers do."
He tried to look into her eyes, but she avoided his gaze and got up.
"Take me back to the ballroom.
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