"A white lily," said Mrs. Barclay.
"No, that is not her type. No. As long as the world stands, a rose just open will remain the fairest similitude for a perfect woman. It's commonness cannot hinder that. She is not an unearthly Dendrobium, she is an earthly rose—
'Not too good
For human nature's daily food,'
—if one could find the right sort of human nature! Just so fresh, unconscious, and fair; with just such a dignity of purity about her. I cannot fancy her at the opera, or dancing."
"A sort of unapproachable tea-rose?" said Mrs. Barclay, smiling at him, though her eyes were wistful.
"No," said he, "a tea-rose is too fragile. There is nothing of that about her, thank heaven!"
"No," said Mrs. Barclay, "there is nothing but sound healthy life about her; mental and bodily; and I agree with you, sweet as ever a human life can be. In the garden or at her books,—hark! that is for supper."
For here there came a slight tap on the door.
"Supper!" cried Philip.
"Yes; it is rather late, and the girls promised me a cup of coffee, after your exertions! But I dare say everybody wants some refreshment by this time. Come!"