"No," said I, "I'll keep this one."
She said nothing, but went on snipping a red rose here, a white one there. She wore gloves several sizes too large for her, so I judged that her hands were small and tender, perhaps white. And there was a grace in her movements, dispite the ungainly dress and shoes, which suggested a more intimate knowledge of velvets and silks than of calico. In my mind's eye I placed her at the side of Phyllis. Phyllis reminded me of a Venus whom Nature had whimsically left unfinished. Then she had turned from Venus to Diana, and Gretchen became evolved: a Diana, slim and willowy. A sculptor would have said that Phyllis might have been a goddess, and Gretchen a wood nymph, had not Nature suddenly changed her plans. What I admired in Phyllis was her imperfect beauties. What I admired in Gretchen was her beautiful perfections. And they were so alike and yet so different. Have you ever seen a body of fresh water, ruffled by a sudden gust of wind, the cool blue-green tint which follows? Then you have seen the color of Gretchen's eyes. Have you ever seen ripe wheat in a sun-shower? Then you have seen the color of Gretchen's hair. All in all, I was forced to admit that, from an impartial and artistic view Gretchen the barmaid was far more beautiful than Phyllis. From the standpoint of a lover it was altogether a different matter.
"Gretchen," said I, "you are very good-looking."
"It would not be difficult to tell Herr's nationality."
"Which means——?"
"That the American says in one sentence what it would take a German or a Frenchman several hundred sentences to say."
Gretchen was growing more interesting every minute.
"Then your mirror and I are not the only ones who have told you that you are as beautiful as Hebe herself?"
"I am not Hebe," coldly. "I am a poor barmaid, and I never spill any wine."
"So you understand mythology?" I cried in wonder.