One need not soil one's hands--in private one could always laugh.

She remembered how Nadie had laughed when three bunches of roses from three different art critics had come in together--how inextinguishably Nadie had laughed.

It was in itself a, success of a kind.

Nadie had no scruples, except about her work.

She went straight to her end, believing it to be an end worth arriving at by any means.
And now Nadie would presently be _tres en vue--tres en vue!_ After all, it was a much finer thing to be scrupulous about one's work--that was the real morality, the real life.