As he watched her hand, polished as a bit of old ivory, with its slender pink nails, and the sapphire bracelet slipping over her wrist, he was struck with the irony of suggesting to her such a life as his cousin Gertrude Farish had chosen.

She was so evidently the victim of the civilization which had produced her, that the links of her bracelet seemed like manacles chaining her to her fate.
She seemed to read his thought.

"It was horrid of me to say that of Gerty," she said with charming compunction.

"I forgot she was your cousin.

But we're so different, you know: she likes being good, and I like being happy.