"Her voice should not be loud and bold, her manner careless," Jacques went on; "but a delicious gentleness, and even at times a languor, should be diffused through it—diffused through voice and manner, as a perfume is diffused through an apartment, invisible, imperceptible almost, filling us with quiet pleasure."
"Quite a poetical description," said Belle-bouche, trying to laugh.
"She should be soft and tender—full of wondrous thoughts, and ever standing like a gracious angel," sighed the rapturous Jacques, "to bless, console, and comfort me."
"Still prettier," said Belle-bouche, blushing.
"Now let me sum up," said Jacques. "Golden hair, blue eyes, a rosy face full of childlike innocence, at times steeped in dewy languor, and those melting smiles which sway us poor men so powerfully; and lastly, with a heart and soul attuned to all exalted feelings and emotions. There is what I look for—ah, to find her! Better still to dream she could love me."
"Well, can you not find your Chloe?" Belle-bouche murmured, almost inaudibly.
"Never, I fear," said Jacques; "or else," he continued with a sigh, "when we do find her, we always find that some other discoverer claims possession."
Belle-bouche blushed.
"Suppose it is without the consent of the aborigines," she said, attempting to laugh.
Jacques looked at her; then shook his head.