"Yes, that was a joke."
"Because," she said, "there is no Mongolian uniformity about you. On the contrary, you remind me in every way of one of your own heroes."
"Oh, really now!" he protested; but she insisted with serious enthusiasm.
"You are the counterpart of the hero in this book," she repeated, resting one hand lightly on the volume under her elbow. "You wear white flannels, you are tall, well built, straight, with[93] very regular features and a fasci—— a smile," she corrected herself calmly, "which one naturally associates with your features."
"Also," she continued, "your voice is cultivated and modulated with just enough of the American accent to make it piquantly agreeable. And what you say is fasci—— is well expressed and interesting. Therefore, as I have said, to me you resemble one of your own heroes."
There was enough hot colour in his face to make it boyishly bashful.
"And you appear to be as modest as one of your own heroes," she added, studying him. "That is truly delightful."
"But really, I am nothing like any of my heroes," he explained, terribly embarrassed.
"Why do you say that, Mr. Smith?"
"Because it's true. I don't even resemble 'em superficially."