"Here?" repeated Bijou, apparently trying to recall something to her memory, "after dinner? Ah, I remember; why, he was talking about you!'
"About me?"
"Yes, about you! He thinks you are very handsome, but he also thinks that you do not know how to make the most of your good looks."
"Have you finished making game of me?"
"I assure you that I am not making game of you—not the least bit in the world. He even advised me to tell you that instead of your frightful stand-up collars—these are his words, you know, and not mine—you ought to wear—what did he call them now?—oh, Van Dyck collars, which would not cover your neck up, for it appears that your throat is superb, and your head so well set on your shoulders; and then you have lovely teeth! I only wish you could hear him sing the praises of your personal appearance."
"Of my personal appearance! Mine?"
"Why, yes; you thought, perhaps, that he was talking to me of mine? Not at all! He informed me, too, that he was going to tell you all that in poetry; not the Van Dyck collars, but the rest."
"That young man is an idiot!"
"Oh, dear me, he is very harmless."
"You are so good-hearted always, you never dig into anyone. Ah, attention! they are packing up, the La Balue crew!" And Henry, in a low voice, and apparently delighted, finished up with a "Hip! hip! hurrah!"