“Your looks,” said he.
“Are they very descriptive?” said I apprehensively.
“Narrative powers of Dickens and Thackeray,” said he, lighting a fresh cigarette. “Decent girl though.”
“Decent!” said I, clenching my fist in my enthusiasm; “she’s the magnificentest girl you ever saw!”
“Strange,” said he, “how all the objects of our affection suffer from superlatives.”
“She’s not an object,” said I fiercely, “she’s a perfect angel. If you knew her, you’d say she was too good to live. And such eyes too!”
“Oh, Granny, what big ears you’ve got!” said he; then dropping his tone, “you excite my fears, old chap. ’Devilish cut up to find your nervous system in such a disorganized condition.”
“Don’t spill your phrases all over the place,” said I. “You’re not in Parliament yet.”
“You’re putting up for Elysium, I see,” he said. “Don’t think you’ll get in though. Rival candidates too strong.”
“Who?” I said faintly.