“Are many Englishwomen as beautiful as you?”
I was thinking, lazily, how beautiful she was. The appositeness of the question took me aback; it startled some of the heaviness from my eyelids. I did not know what to reply. My hesitation did not please her. A sudden gleam came into her eyes; as if the wild creature which inhabited them had all at once come to the front.
“Why do you not answer? I am used to being answered. Are many Englishwomen as beautiful as you?”
“They are much more beautiful. I am not beautiful at all.”
“You are beautiful. You are a liar.”
The plain directness of her speech brought the blood into my cheeks. She marked my change of colour, as if surprised.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
My tone was meek as meek could be.
“You have gone red.” I went still redder. “How do you do it? Is it a trick? It becomes you very well; it makes you still more beautiful. Is it the blood shining through your skin? You are so white, the least thing shows. To be white I would give all that I am, all that I have.”