"I do not know. I think it is because they are so—so beautiful, so amiable!" she answered.
"And such good companions."
"Yes; they never embarrass you," she went on. "You never feel at loss for a word."
"I fear you do not know bears."
"Dieu! better than men. Voila!" she exclaimed, touching me with the end of her parasol. "You are not so terrible. I do not think you would bite."
"No; I have never bitten anything but—but bread and doughnuts, or something of that sort."
"Come, I desire to intimidate you. Won't you please be afraid of me? Indeed, I can be very terrible. See! I have sharp teeth."
She turned with a playful growl, and parting her crimson lips, showed them to me—white and shapely, and as even as if they had been wrought of ivory. She knew they were beautiful, the vixen.
"You terrify me. I have a mind to run," I said, backing off,
"Please do not run," she answered quickly. "I should be afraid that—that—"