She glanced at the foot-passengers, who were turning round to look at her with intense curiosity, and answered:
"It's my pink dress that—"
"No, it is not your dress, it is you yourself."
Her large violet eyes grew larger with astonishment as she asked:
"I, myself? But why?"
"Oh, Bijou, my dear, it is not at all nice of you to act like that with your poor old cousin."
"You think I am acting?" she exclaimed, looking more and more astounded.
"Well, it appears like it to me; it is impossible for you not to know how pretty you are. In the first place, you have eyes, and then you are told often enough for—"
"I am told?—by whom?"
"By everyone. Why, even I, although I am nearly your uncle and a settled-down respectable sort of man."