"Oh, you must not strain probabilities in that way. The generality of men are perfect. Take me, for example."
"You are a perfect judge of sauces," said Esther, who had her triumphs in letting Harold know that she was capable of taking notes.
"That is perfection number one. Pray go on."
"Oh, the catalogue is too long—I should be tired before I got to your magnificent ruby ring and your gloves always of the right color."
"If you would let me tell you your perfections, I should not be tired."
"That is not complimentary; it means that the list is short."
"No; it means that the list is pleasant to dwell upon."
"Pray don't begin," said Esther, with her pretty toss of the head; "it would be dangerous to our good understanding. The person I liked best in the world was one who did nothing but scold me and tell me of my faults."
When Esther began to speak, she meant to do no more than make a remote unintelligible allusion, feeling, it must be owned, a naughty will to flirt and be saucy, and thwart Harold's attempts to be felicitous in compliment. But she had no sooner uttered the words than they seemed to her like a confession. A deep flush spread itself over her face and neck, and the sense that she was blushing went on deepening her color. Harold felt himself unpleasantly illuminated as to a possibility that had never yet occurred to him. His surprise made an uncomfortable pause, in which Esther had time to feel much vexation.
"You speak in the past tense," said Harold, at last; "yet I am rather envious of that person. I shall never be able to win your regard in the same way. Is it anyone at Treby? Because in that case I can enquire about your faults."