Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. I have known Miss Pellissier as long as any of you perhaps, and I have seen something of her since her arrival in London. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. It became a sort of duel at last between them, and all the others sat and listened—every one, that is, except the Alderman, who had got the blond young man into a corner by the green-stained dresser with the aluminum things, and was sitting with his back to every one else, holding one hand over his mouth for greater privacy, and telling him, with an accent of confidential admission, in whispers of the chronic struggle between the natural modesty and general inoffensiveness of the Borough Council and the social evil in Marylebone.
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