“As a very great treat, I think you might be allowed to, for once,” she said, in a tender little voice that matched her smile, feeling like a mother, and a wife, and a lover, and a sister, and all sorts of other things as well towards this adorably helpless person, so infinitely inferior to herself and at exactly the same time so infinitely superior, whom she had elected to marry. “Now watch, and I’ll show you what happens to sandy eyebrows when they get into my toils. It’s supposed to be hopelessly bad policy, I know, but I have no secrets from you, darling; not even toilet ones.”
“I won’t have my wife’s eyebrows insulted,” Guy retorted, dropping his long, lean frame into an arm-chair. “They’re not sandy, they never have been sandy, and they never will be sandy.”
“My dear old Guy,” laughed Cynthia, taking effective steps to clear the brows in question of any lingering imputations of sandiness, “you’d never notice if they were, so don’t pretend you would. Why, I don’t believe you could even say off-hand what colour my eyes are.”
“My dear!” exclaimed her husband, with righteous indignation.
“Well—what colour are they then?”
Guy shifted a trifle uneasily in his chair. “A—a sort of greeny-brown,” he said, somewhat defiantly.
“Commonly called hazel. Is that what you mean?”
“Hazel,” Guy nodded with some relief. “Yes.”
“Guy, you’re hopeless!” Cynthia laughed. “What sort of a husband do you think you are? Really! Not to have the faintest idea of the colour of his own wife’s eyes! Well, you might have said blue and been complimentary at any rate.”
“Do you mean to say they’re not hazel?” her husband inquired.