“Oh Von!” I said, and I burst out laughing. “I do wish you wouldn’t talk rubbish like that. Why, you know that I am very—very—downright ugly.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” he replied. “To me, a face like yours, so round, and eyes so grey, and—well, I think you are beautiful.”
I saw at last that he was speaking the truth. Perhaps I was the Dutch style. I knew I should never certainly be the English style. After a moment his words were soothing. It was well if even a Dutchman could think me nice.
“And you are so brave,” he continued. “Looks don’t matter very much, of course. They do a little, but you are so plucky, and you have always been so good at home, although now you are just having a rare chance of turning yourself into—”
“Well?” I said, for he stopped.
“Into a vixen.”
“Oh dear!” I cried.
“Yes; you know you are not what you used to be, and it is because of the best woman in the world. So I do want you to try—”
“Stop!” I said. “I won’t do what you want, so now let us change the subject.”
The colour came into his face.