“Not a little one, certainly,” is the quick reply, (Rosa’s being a little one.)
“Long pale nose, with a red knob in the middle. I know the sort of nose,” says Rosa, with a satisfied nod, and tranquilly enjoying the Lumps.
“You don’t know the sort of nose, Rosa,” with some warmth; “because it’s nothing of the kind.”
“Not a pale nose, Eddy?”
“No.” Determined not to assent.
“A red nose? O! I don’t like red noses. However; to be sure she can always powder it.”
“She would scorn to powder it,” says Edwin, becoming heated.
“Would she? What a stupid thing she must be! Is she stupid in everything?”
“No; in nothing.”
After a pause, in which the whimsically wicked face has not been unobservant of him, Rosa says: