“Prince Charming——?”
“The young Astyanax, the hope of—Altronde,” she explained. “Your friend, Bertrando Bertrandoni. I was meditating his manifold perfections.”
Pontycroft shook his head. “I miss the point of your irony,” he remarked.
“Irony?” protested she, with spirit. “When was I ever ironical? He's perfectly delightful—so unassuming and unspoiled; and so romantic, like a king in exile. And with such a nice thin figure, and such large sagacious eyes. And he speaks such chaste and classic English, and is so quick to take a joke. If I weren't restrained by a sense of what's becoming to me as a single woman, I should make desperate love to him.”
Pontycroft shook his head again. “I still miss the point,” he said.
“I express myself blunderingly, I know,” said Ruth. “You see, it's somewhat embarrassing for a girl to have to avow such sentiments. But really and truly and honestly, and all jesting apart, I think he's an extremely nice young man, quite the nicest that I've met for a long, long while.”
“You sang a different song yesterday,” said Pontycroft, bewilderment and suspicion mingled in his gaze.
“La nuit porte conseil,” Ruth reminded him. “I've had leisure in which to revise my impressions. He's a fellow who can talk, a fellow who's curious about things. I hope we shall see a great deal of him.” She lifted up her oleander, pressed it to her face, and took a deep inhalation. “Bless its red fragrant heart,” she said.
“I never can tell when you are sincere,” Ponty hopelessly complained.
“I'm always sincere—but seldom serious,” Ruth replied. “What's the good of being serious? Isn't levity the soul of wit? Come, come! Life's grim enough, in all conscience, without making it worse by being serious.”