"My party deserted me, and that was the end of my 'good time,'" I replied, charmed with Molly's conception of the rôle of a "quiet kitten" whose existence was to be forgotten. As if any man could ever forget hers!
"What, your nice Joseph and his Finois?" she inquired.
"When I speak of 'my party' I refer particularly to the boy I wrote you about," I returned, far from averse to being drawn out on the subject of my troubles, though I had resolved, were I not intimately questioned, to let them prey upon my damask cheek.
"Oh, yes, that wonderful American boy. Did he keep right on being wonderful all the time, or did he turn out disappointing in the end?"
"Disappointing!" I echoed. "No; rather the other way round. He was always surprising me with new qualities. I never saw anyone like him."
"Ah, perhaps that's because you never knew other American boys. I dare say if I'd met him I shouldn't have found him so remarkable."
"Yes, you would," I protested. "There could be no two opinions about it."
"Is he good-looking?"
"Extraordinarily. Such eyes as his are wasted on a boy—or would be on any other boy. If he'd been a girl, he would have been one for a man to fall head over ears in love with."
"You're enthusiastic! Hasn't he got any sisters?"