"But she is pretty," Stanford returned.
"Oh, yes, in a way. She has the face of an overripe cherub."
He laughed and led her to a seat.
"Take your picture of Mr. Plant," said he, "and I will get you the bouillon."
"No, I can't have anything so hideous. Give me one of yours instead.
I'll have that little fat monk."
"All that I have is at your service," he responded with seriousness sounding through the mock gravity, as he unpinned the little mask and put it into her hand.
"Thank you, but I don't ask your all. I hope that you didn't value this especially."
"Not that I remember. I haven't an idea who gave it to me."
"You don't seem to value a gift on account of the giver."
"That depends," returned he. "Now there are some givers whose favors I cherish most carefully."