"It shan't have a turned-up nose, then. It shall have a Roman nose."
"Bravo!" I cried "Bravo! Roman it shall be," and I dipped my pen and prepared to write the word down in the blank space on the application form.
"Stop!" said Francesca. "Don't do anything rash. Now that I look at you again I'm not sure that yours is a Roman nose."
"Oh, Francesca, do not say such cruel, such upsetting things. It must, it shall be Roman."
"What," she asked, "is a Roman nose?"
"Mine is," I said eagerly. "No nose was ever one-half so Roman as mine. It is the noblest Roman of them all."
"No," she said, with a sigh, "it won't do. I can't pass it as Roman."
"All right," I said, "I'll put it down as 'non-Roman.'"
"Yes, do," she said, "and let's get on to something else."
"Eyes," I said. "How shall I describe them?"