"Do not you think that she looks very comfortable where she is?" he asks, rather doubtfully.
I am a little disappointed.
"I am sure she would like you," I say, with a dogmatic shake of the head. "I told her that you were—well, that I got on with you, and we always like the same people."
"That must be awkward sometimes?"
"What do you mean? Oh! not in that way—" (with an unblushing heart-whole laugh). "Lucky for me that we do not."
"Lucky for you?" (interrogatively).
"Why will you make me say things that sound mock-modest?" cry I, reddening a little this time. "You know perfectly well what I mean—it is not likely that any one would look at me when Barbara was by—you can have no notion," continue I, speaking very fast to avoid contradiction, "how well she looks when she is dancing—never gets hot, or flushed, or mottled, as so many people do."
"And you? how do you look?"
"I grow purple," I answer, laughing—"a rich imperial purple, all over. If you had once seen me, you would never forget me."
"Go on: tell me something more about Barbara!"