Theresa had that thrice-armored self-complacence which nature so often relentingly gives, to more than supply the lack of the charms withheld.

She thought she was fascinating beyond any woman of her acquaintance, indeed, of her time.

She spent hours in admiring herself, in studying out poses for her head and body and arms, especially her arms, which she regarded as nature's last word on that kind of beauty--a not wholly fanciful notion, as they were not bad, if a bit too short between elbow and wrist, and rather fat at the shoulders.

She always thought and, on several occasions in bursts of confidence, had imparted to girl friends that "no man who has once cared for me can ever care for another woman." Several of her confidantes had precisely the same modest opinion of their own powers; but they laughed at Theresa--behind her back.
Ross knew how vain she was.

To break with her, he would have to tell her flatly that he would not marry her.