"And at the corner of your mouth there is a most reprehensible dimple. Dimples like that simply ought not to be allowed. As for your nose—"
"Never mind my nose," said she with dignity. "It minds its own business."
"No," he continued, with the air of one who sums up to a conclusion. "I cannot approve the tout ensemble. It's interesting. And peculiar. And suggestive. But too post-impressionistic."
"That is quite enough about me. Suppose you change the subject now and account for yourself."
"I? Oh, I came along to frustrate the plots of a wicked father."
"He isn't a wicked father! And I didn't ask you why you're here. I want to know who you are!"
"I'm the Perfect Pig."
Little Miss Grouch stamped her little French heel. As it landed the young man was six feet away, having retired with the graceful agility of a trained boxer.
"You're very light on your feet," said she.
"Therein lies my only hope of self-preservation. You were not very light on my foot yesterday, you know."