"I am nineteen," said Nalte, "and the daughter of a jong, but if I loved a man I should say so."
"Perhaps the customs of your country and those of Duare's are not the same," I suggested.
"They must be very different," agreed Nalte, "for in my country a man does not speak to a girl of love until she has told him that she loves him; and the daughter of the jong chooses her own mate whenever she pleases."
"That custom may have its advantages," I admitted, "but if I loved a girl I should want the right to tell her so."
"Oh, the men find ways of letting a girl know without putting it into words. I could tell if a man loved me, but if I loved him very much I wouldn't wait for that."
"And what if he didn't love you?" I asked.
Nalte tossed her head. "I'd make him."
I could readily understand that Nalte might be a very difficult young person not to love. She was slender and dark, with an olive skin and a mass of black hair in lovely disorder. Her eyes sparkled with health and intelligence. Her features were regular and almost boyish, and over all was the suggestion of a veil of dignity that bespoke her blood. I could not doubt but that she was the daughter of a jong.
It seemed to be my fate to encounter daughters of jongs. I said as much to Nalte.
"How many have you met?" she asked.