“It’s not a compliment,” he went on, “so thanks are superfluous. You are at your best in a pleasant humour. You have a charming smile and a fascinating manner—when you are good! But when you are put out, you look quite different—and you lose your charm.”
“That is the case with everybody,” she said.
“Not always. Some women look their best in a passion. Flashing eyes, dishevelled hair, and general tantrums, make them diabolically beautiful. But you, with your dove-like glance and soft bright hair are of the elfin type—and I believe—if fairy tales are true!—that elves are never angry.”
She looked at him and smiled. He was in his kindliest, most attractive mood, and when he allowed himself the relaxation of perfect good temper, he could be almost lovable.
“Elves,” he repeated, “are never angry. They are full of pranks and wiles, but they are never unkind to their friends—”
“I am not unkind!” she interrupted quickly.
“Dear child, I never said you were! But your incorrigible sentiment makes you hasty in judgment—quick to condemn. I’m quite sure you think me a sort of masked traitor because I fail to see any virtue in dying for England, and prefer to live for her. I’m equally positive you have your doubts as to my sense of common humanity because I say and because I mean that a very large number of people would be better out of the world than in it. And so you misunderstand me. Your Jack now—”
“He’s not ‘my’ Jack,” she interposed, swiftly.
“Well, he’d like to be,” retorted the Philosopher. “And of course he’d ‘die’ for England—no!—for ‘America and the Old Glory!’—Delightful bunkum! He’s all nobleness, patriotism, enthusiasm and heart! A nice boy—quite a nice boy,—but insufferably dull!”
She was silent.