“And then his look,” continued she. “People say he’s handsome, and of course he is; but I don’t like that kind of beauty, and I wonder that you should.”
“Why so, pray?”
“Well, you know, I think there’s nothing noble or lofty in his appearance.”
“In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted heroes of romance. Well, give me my flesh and blood lover, and I’ll leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you—if you can find them.”
“I don’t want them,” said she. “I’ll be satisfied with flesh and blood too—only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don’t you think Mr. Huntingdon’s face is too red?”
“No!” cried I, indignantly. “It is not red at all. There is just a pleasant glow, a healthy freshness in his complexion—the warm, pinky tint of the whole harmonising with the deeper colour of the cheeks, exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a painted doll, or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous yellow.”
“Well, tastes differ—but I like pale or dark,” replied she. “But, to tell you the truth, Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope that you would one day be my sister. I expected Walter would be introduced to you next season; and I thought you would like him, and was certain he would like you; and I flattered myself I should thus have the felicity of seeing the two persons I like best in the world—except mamma—united in one. He mayn’t be exactly what you would call handsome, but he’s far more distinguished-looking, and nicer and better than Mr. Huntingdon;—and I’m sure you would say so, if you knew him.”
“Impossible, Milicent! You think so, because you’re his sister; and, on that account, I’ll forgive you; but nobody else should so disparage Arthur Huntingdon to me with impunity.”
Miss Wilmot expressed her feelings on the subject almost as openly.
“And so, Helen,” said she, coming up to me with a smile of no amiable import, “you are to be Mrs. Huntingdon, I suppose?”