"Oh, rather!" rejoined Fenella. (How nicely he speaks French.) "I'm good at fencing. I was captain of the 'gym' at our school."
The man just glanced at the card and put it into his pocket absent-mindedly. He was wondering what kind the school might be that had taught this distractingly friendly child to dance and fence, but not to read French and, above all, not to be careful—with that face and figure—how she spoke to strangers.
Meantime, something in this last speech had reminded the girl of the first fine rapture of Ruritania, years ago.
"You're a novelist, aren't you?" she said.
"Of sorts," he admitted.
"I wish I was intellectual"—wistfully.
"You're better. You're cute."
"Cute—cute—! What does that mean? Clever?"
"Not exactly."
"Pretty, then?"