Von Rosen's face came before her.

She considered it a handsome face, but no man's face could disturb her.
She held her virtue with as nervous a clutch as she held up her fine gown.

To soil either would be injudicious, impolitic, and she never desired the injudicious and impolitic.
"He is a handsome man," she said to herself, "an aristocratic-looking man." Then the telephone bell close beside her divan rang, and she took up the receiver carefully, not moving her head, sat up, and put her delicate lips to the speaking tube.
"Hello," said a voice, and she recognised it as Von Rosen's although it had an agitated, nervous ring which was foreign to it.
"What is it ?" she said in reply, and the voice responded with volubility, "A girl, a young Syrian girl, is at my home.

She is in a swoon or something.

We cannot revive her.