"The other's worse. I saw her. The one you saw is handsome; but the other is peculiar. She is rare. Maybe not just so handsome, but more refined; and peculiar. I don't know just what it is in her; but she fascinated me. Masses of auburn hair—not just auburn—more of a golden tint than brown—with a gold reflet, you know, that is so lovely; and a face—"
"Well, what sort of a face?" asked Mr. Burrage, as his spouse paused.
"Something between a baby and an angel, and yet with a sort of sybil look of wisdom. I believe she put one of Domenichino's sybils into my head; there's that kind of complexion—"
"My dear," said the gentleman, laughing, "you could not tell what complexion she was of. She was in a shady corner."
"I was quite near her. Now that sort of thing might just catch Philip."
"Well," said the gentleman, "you cannot help that."
"I don't know if I can or no!"
"Why should you want to help it, after all?"
"Why? I don't want Philip to make a mis-match."
"Why should it be a mis-match?"