“Pretty nearly,” she said. “I want to have fun as well. Older men are rather nice, I know, but they’re rather grave too. I should hate to be tied to a stodge. Some one who could go long walks, and climb a tree if necessary, and ride, and be silly at parties. But not really silly underneath, of course; and yet,” she added, “older men are very attractive, aren’t they?”
“I hope so,” I said: “now and then.”
“Oh, you vain thing!” she replied. “No,” she went on, “he should be older than I am, anyway.”
“A fellow like young Fortescue?” I hazarded.
“Oh no. He thinks too much about his clothes.”
“But he’s very good-looking.”
“Yes, in a way. And I should want him to be handsome. I want my boys to be handsome, you see. But not like Harry Fortescue: he’s too pretty.”
“Very well then. Young Somers-Flint?”
“No, he’s too noisy. He has that terrible laugh. I should want him to be amusing, of course, and see all the funny things in life, but more quietly. Besides, I can’t stand men with thin noses. His nose is absurd.”
“If you want big noses,” I said, “what about Harold Swain?”