Harry smiled rather loudly—
"My dear fellow, I couldn't call you plain Mat. It wouldn't be suitable! You're too good-looking!"
Van Buren smiled and shook his head. In its way it was a handsome head in the fair, clean-shaven American style, with shining blond hair. He had very broad shoulders, and a very thin waist, and that naïve worldliness of air so captivating in many of his countrymen.
Except that he wore a buttonhole of Parma violets, he was dressed in every particular exactly like Harry. But no one would have believed it—he looked so much better dressed.
"That's your chaff, Harry. I'm not a Gibson man, and I don't pretend to be."
He looked at his hands, which were small and white, the finger-tips brilliantly polished, and said meditatively—
"I'm very much looking forward to meeting your cousin, Harry. I expect she's the ideal of a young English lady. Dark, did you say?"
"Rather dark, and very pretty."
"It's a curious thing, Harry, that to me a broonette has always more fascination than a blonde. It seems—I may be wrong—as though there's more piquancy, more character."
"I quite agree with you," said Harry. "Now the sister—the married one—is very fair."