Imre opened his lips as if about to say something or other; and then made no remark. Once more he gave me the idea that he was minded to speak, but hesitated. So I suspended operations with my hairbrushes.
"You appear to be labouring with a remarkably difficult idea," said I.
He answered abruptly: "There are some things it is hard for a man to judge of, even in another fellow... at least people say so. See here, you! I wish... I wish you would tell me something.... you won't think me a conceited ass? Do you... for instance... do you... find me really specially good-looking... when you look around the lot of other men one sees.... in comparison with plenty of others, I mean?"
"Do you want an answer in chaff, or seriously?"
"Seriously."
"I most certainly think you 'specially' such, N...."
"And you are of the opinion that most people... women... men... sculptors, for instance, or painters..: a photographer, if you like.... ought to be of your opinion?"
"But yes, assuredly," I replied, laughing at what seemed the naiveté and uncalled-for earnestness in his tone. "You do not need to put me on oath, such a newcomer, too, into your society, to give you the conviction. Or, stay... how would you like me to draft you a kind of technical schedule, my dear fellow, stating how and why you are—not repulsive? I could give it to you, if I thought it would be good for you, and if you would listen to it. For you are one of those lucky ones in the world whose good-looks can be demonstrated, categorically, so to say—trait by trait—passport-style. Come, come, N—! Don't be so depressed because you are so beautiful! Cheer up! Probably there will always be somebody in the wide world who will not care to bestow even an half-eye on you!... some being who remains, first and last, totally unimpressed, brutally unmoved, by all your manly charms! I dare say that if you consult that individual you will be assured that you are the most ordinary-looking creature in creation."
As I spoke, Imre who had been sitting, three-quarters turned from me, over at a window, whisked himself about quickly and gave me what I thought was a most inexplicable look. "Have I offended him?" I asked myself; ridiculous to me, even at so early a stage of our intimacy, as was the notion. But I saw that his look was not one of surprised irritation. It was not one of dissent. He continued looking at me... ah, his serious eyes!... whatever else he was seeing in his perturbed mind.
"Well," I continued, "isn't that probable? Have I made you angry by hinting at such a stupidity.... such an aesthetic tragedy?"