"I should say not," Fleetwood said, shuddering at the thought. "Kitty's eyes, as nearly as I can remember, are more mud colored. Flecked with sand, if they must be flecked with anything. They're astonishing."
"Huh?" Dermitt said, taken aback. "But I'll bet her mouth is something to wire home about, eh? Petulant and full? Soft and warm?"
Fleetwood shook his head. "Narrow as a string," he said reminiscently. "Hard and cool. Kitty is no ordinary girl, you understand."
"Are you sure she's any kind of girl at all?" Dermitt asked hesitantly. "What about her nose? She has a nose, hasn't she?"
"Of course," Fleetwood said. "Two openings at the end for air, of course. It's just a nose, I suppose, but she's got one all right."
"Uh-huh," Dermitt nodded with subdued spirits. "And hair?"
"She got that too," Fleetwood affirmed. "Lusterless, it is, and sort of brownish. I've never seen anyone like her. She's absolutely tremendous."
"Fat, too, huh?" Dermitt murmured, "on top of everything else." He shook his head regretfully.
"Oh, no," Fleetwood put in. "You misunderstand. Her figure, I should say, could be described as definitely so-so."
"Holy smoke!" Dermitt cried. "So that's the kind of dame you pick out—you, Fleetwood Cassidy, who, thanks to me, has been in constant and close contact with some of the most fascinating females in fiction!"