“No, I do not mean any such thing—but a beautiful creature, with the brightest locks in Christendom—the very light-brown waving ringlets, Dominicheno loved to paint, and a foot—did you see her foot?”
“No; that was rather difficult, for she kept continually bobbing up and down, like a boy’s cork-float in a fish-pond.”
“Stop there. I shall not permit this any longer—I came not here to listen to—”
“But, Curzon, my boy, you’re not angry?”
“Yes, sir, I am angry.”
“Why, surely, you have not been serious all this time?”
“And why not, pray?”
“Oh! I don’t exactly know—that is, faith I scarcely thought you were in earnest, for if I did, of course I should honestly have confessed to you that the lady in question struck me as one of the handsomest persons I ever met.”
“You think so really, Hal?”
“Certainly I do, and the opinion is not mine alone; she is, in fact universally admired.”