"My darling, I hate clever women; a woman is meant to be beautiful and good, and cleverness simply spoils her."
"Then don't you admire Isabel Carnaby?"
(Alice was still a woman, though she was ready to go down and live in the Stepney Settlement.)
"I couldn't exactly say that I don't admire her; she is so modern and up-to-date, that I regard her as a sort of national institution that one ought to feel proud of—a specimen of what the nineteenth century can produce. But she never attracts me in the least; she is cold and brilliant and hard, like a diamond, and has nothing lovable about her, as far as I can see."
Alice drew a little contented sigh. "And she isn't really pretty, is she?"
"Not at all. I never can bear blue eyes; they are always cold and unsympathetic, I think."
"What coloured eyes do you like best?"
"Brown—like velvet; and hair to match and a complexion like a rose-leaf."
Alice laughed a low happy laugh. "I am so glad you don't mind my being stupid."
"You are not stupid, dear; you are full of tact—which is infinitely better than cleverness. See how well you can talk to the poor, and how you can make them love you. You have a happy knack of always saying the the right thing."