It is a perfectly Machiavellian speech. Tita's feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in this world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn't want everyone to tell her all about them.
"No, no; they're nothing," says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.
But even as she says this she smiles—reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she does smile—and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes. It is a delightful look—half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.
"Forgive me, Tita!" says her husband quickly.
"I don't want you to talk to me like that," says she, with a frown.
"But I must say that. Well, will you?"
"I don't know." She stops, and again casts that pretty glance at him. "At all events, you will have to promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"No; I'm in earnest."
"So am I."