“I know what this wreath means—‘Modest love is a joy.’ Am I right?”
“Yes—no—yes—that is—Oh dear me! Is it not a lovely day?”
“Is it not a lovely face? Very lovely.”
“I speak of the day.”
“And I of you.”
Decidedly Maurice was getting on capitally in the art of saying nothings which mean somethings, and Helena was woman enough to know what he was hinting at, yet also woman enough to indulge in a little coquetry. She had burnt her fingers with Caliphronas; yet, quite forgetful of the warning, began to tease Maurice with charming persistence.
“Am I very lovely?”
“You are as beautiful as Helen,” replied Maurice, rather taken aback at the directness of this question.
“I am as beautiful as Helen! Well, I am Helen; so you mean I am as beautiful as myself. That is not a compliment.”
“What a vain child you are! I am speaking of the Trojan Helen.”