McAllister turned his handsome, careless face to his sister.
“You think her a stupid little provincial, don’t you, Agnes?”
“I? Why, I asked you your opinion.”
“You don’t deny that you think that.”
“Her boots are frightful, and her hat was appalling.”
“Oh, come,” laughed her brother; “be fair!”
Mrs. McAllister gathered up her work—a piece of tapestry.
“You are unable,” she said, with some asperity, “to see any landscape without a woman in it, even for five days.”
“It’s a great compliment that you pay your sex. Let my weakness pass. Won’t you confess that this little village nobody has more good looks than we have seen in Rome for two winters?”
“Beauty—Paul!”