“Oh, don’t you like the ends of the fronds rubbed? . . . I see, they were given you by your fiancé, and naturally they are the apple of your eye. That reminds me, you haven’t shown me his portrait yet. I’m longing to see it. . . .
“Is that the gentleman! Well! he’s the very last man in the world I should have chosen for you! Not a bit like what I pictured. . . .
“No, I don’t mean that there’s anything wrong with him, only—er—he doesn’t look a scrap like the man you would become engaged to. . . .
“Well, I don’t know that I can exactly describe the type of man I expected. I thought he would be tall and——
“He is? Over six feet? Well, he doesn’t look it from his photo, does he? . . .
“That’s true; a vignetted head doesn’t show the full height. But apart from that, I expected an artistic sort of man. . . .
“He is? Really! And then I should have pictured him rather—er—well, Napoleonic, and with that far-away poetic fire in his eyes that carries you off your feet to untold heights. . . .
“No, of course I don’t mean an aviator! I mean a—but it isn’t easy to put it into words; only you can’t think how disap—how surprised I am to see a little man. . . .
“Of course, I remember you did say he was tall and well made. But there, handsome is as handsome does; and, after all, I’ve heard that it is often the plainest and most uninteresting-looking men that turn out the best in the end. I can only hope that it will be so in your——