"Hem, ahem—the breeze is deuced strong," said I. "Do me the favour to shut the blind, De Walden—beg pardon for all this trouble."
He did so, and I gained the advantage I aimed at, which was, to darken the room so as to render it impossible for any change in one's beautiful complexion to be seen.
"Why, I scarcely noticed the little lady, do you know, De Walden?"—He certainly seemed not to have known it.—"She is a nice little person—rather too petite, however, for my taste, and not very sylph-like; a fine skin, certainly, and beautiful hair—but then her high nose—and her eyes are not very good either—much too small and light—besides, she is shortsighted."
De Walden's smile showed he was not, at any rate.
"And as for eyebrows, why, the superb arch of Miss Duquesné's is infinitely finer, and beats them hollow—her neck and throat tolerable, certainly; and the kindliness of her manner!—why, she comports herself like a little matron beside a sick-bed; and the way she handles little Dicky!—didn't you notice it, De Walden? No wonder he called her mamma, poor little fellow."
"Did you ever hear her sing, sir?"
"No, unless it was her voice I heard but just now in the other room."
"You guess rightly. Miss Duquesné sang the second to her first. Two voices never did in this world blend so sweetly."
"Ah!" said I, fearing he was again cruising too near me, "the pipe was good enough—liquid and musical-glass like; but Miss Sophie Duquesné's—that was a voice indeed—so deep for a woman, so clear, so full-bodied."
"Pray, sir," said De Walden, archly, "are you speaking of the qualities of London porter, or Mademoiselle Duquesné's voice?"