"You are very fond of her?"
"Yes, I admit it, you see; which proves that I am not paying court to her."
"Do you see her often?"
"Sometimes."
"Then you are her friend—seriously?"
"Well, yes, to some extent. Why do you laugh?"
"Because I don't believe a word of it; at twenty-four, one is not the serious friend of a—young and beautiful woman!"
"Bah! she is neither so young nor so beautiful as you say. She is a good comrade, not unpleasant to look at, that's all. But she belongs to a type that I don't like, and I am obliged to forgive her for being a blonde. I don't like blondes, except in painting."
"She is not so very light after all! her eyes are of a soft black, her hair is neither light nor dark, and she arranges it in a peculiar way. However, it's becoming to her: she has the look of an amiable sphinx."
"A very pretty comparison; but—you like tall women, it seems!"