"Not half so well as Claire."
"Nonsense; Claire is well enough as names go, but nothing to Clarissa. Mark how the ending gives it grace and quaintness; what a grand eighteenth-century ring it has! It is superb—so sweet, and at the same time so stately."
"And replaces Francesca so well in scansion."
Tom's face was confession.
"You should see her, Jasper—her eyes. What colour are Claire's?"
"Deep grey."
"Clarissa's are hazel brown: I prefer brown; in fact I always thought a woman should have brown eyes: we won't quarrel about inches, but you will give way in the matter of eyes, will you not?"
"Not an inch."
"It really is wonderful," said Tom, "how the mere fact of being in love is apt to corrupt a man's taste. Now in the matter of voice—I dare wager that your Claire speaks in soft and gentle numbers."
"As an Aeolian harp," said I, and I spoke truth.