't get it--but in
the true sense she is not spoiled. Her fresh enthusiasm, her will to
grow and learn, her endless faith in the inexhaustibility of romance,
her courage and fundamental honesty--these things are not spoiled.

There are long periods when she cordially loathes her whole family.
She is quite unprincipled; her philosophy is carpe diem for herself
and laissez faire for others. She loves shocking stories: she has that
coarse streak that usually goes with natures that are both fine and big.
She wants people to like her, but if they do not it never worries her or
changes her. She is by no means a model character.

The education of all beautiful women is the knowledge of men. ROSALIND
had been disappointed in man after man as individuals, but she had great
faith in man as a sex. Women she detested. They represented qualities
that she felt and despised in herself--incipient meanness, conceit,
cowardice, and petty dishonesty. She once told a roomful of her
mother's friends that the only excuse for women was the necessity for
a disturbing element among men. She danced exceptionally well, drew
cleverly but hastily, and had a startling facility with words, which she
used only in love-letters.

But all criticism of ROSALIND ends in her beauty. There was that shade
of glorious yellow hair, the desire to imitate which supports the dye
industry. There was the eternal kissable mouth, small, slightly sensual,
and utterly disturbing. There were gray eyes and an unimpeachable skin
with two spots of vanishing color. She was slender and athletic, without
underdevelopment, and it was a delight to watch her move about a room,
walk along a street, swing a golf club, or turn a "cartwheel."

A last qualification--her vivid, instant personality escaped that
conscious, theatrical quality that AMORY had found in ISABELLE.
MONSIGNOR DARCY would have been quite up a tree whether to call her
a personality or a personage. She was perhaps the delicious,
inexpressible, once-in-a-century blend.

On the night of her debut she is, for all her strange, stray wisdom,
quite like a happy little girl. Her mother's maid has just done her
hair, but she has decided impatiently that she can do a better job
herself. She is too nervous just now to stay in one place. To that
we owe her presence in this littered room. She is going to speak.
ISABELLE'S alto tones had been like a violin, but if you could hear
ROSALIND, you would say her voice was musical