“Did you ever see such a d——d ugly old fellow in your life before?”
“Never,” returned Flora, very innocently. Then, looking up in his face, she cried out with a sudden start, and without the least mental reservation, “It is the picture of yourself!”
“Yes, it is my picture. An excellent likeness—half bulldog, half terrier. Judging from that ugly, crabbed old dog over the mantelpiece, what sort of a fellow ought I to be?”
He said this with a malicious twinkle in his clear, grey eyes, which glanced like sparks of fire from under his thick bushy eyebrows.
“Better than you look,” said Flora, laughing. “But your question is not a fair one, Mr. W.; I was taken by surprise, and you must not press me too hard.”
“A clear admission, young lady, that you would rather avoid telling the truth.”
“It is the portrait of a plain man.”
“Pshaw! You did not qualify it as such in your own mind. Plain—is only one degree worse than good-looking. You thought it—”
“Ugly—if you insist upon it.”
“Nothing worse?”