"I wish mine were anything like as good," said Scarlett, with dispassionate candour.
"You wish yours——" Miss Wilton began, and ended with an amazed and incredulous laugh which was exceedingly flattering. It was so evidently genuine.
"I don't think you half believe me now," he said. "But I assure you, if you were to ask an artist he would tell you——"
"An artist? Oh, I dare say an artist might say so. But I don't believe a woman would say that Mr. Harding was good-looking."
"How if she were an artist?"
"Oh, then she wouldn't count."
"But why wouldn't a woman think so?"
She paused to consider. "I don't know," she said, "and yet I do mean it, somehow. He may be handsome, but he doesn't seem like it. I think a woman would want him to seem as well as to be."
"Do you mean that she wouldn't admire him unless he gave himself airs? That's not very complimentary to the woman, you know."
Miss Wilton shook her head. "I don't mean that. He might not think about himself at all—I should like him all the better." She stood for a minute with her eyes raised to Adrian's, yet was plainly looking back at the image of Reynold Harding which she had called up for the purpose of analysis. At last, "He isn't a bit unconscious!" she exclaimed. "He is the most self-conscious man I know. I believe he is always thinking about himself!"