"N'importe," said Gordon. "But what do you think of her?"
"I have not had time to form an opinion," said Montague.
"You received some kind of impression, necessarily," said Gordon. "No one can be almost alone with a stranger for an hour or more, and not form some idea of what the character may be."
"She is certainly very silent and reserved," said Montague. "Her countenance denotes intellect,—but she appears cold, and has a loftiness that is repelling.—I fear she may prove wanting in that sensibility, of which cousin Alice has so abundant a share."
"O, she is a block of marble—a bank of snow—a statue of ice," said Gordon. "There would be infinite amusement in trying whether the marble would yield! the snow melt! the ice thaw!—She is a new variety of the species. I have seen nothing like her!"
"You admire her," said Montague. "I do exceedingly," said Gordon.
"Your taste has much changed," observed Montague. "It is but a short time since you were in raptures about my cousin, and they appear to be exceedingly unlike."
"True,—and Miss Claremont therefore excites the deeper interest. She will require some labor, some ingenuity to make her dissolve. Alice, pardon me, is always melted."
"Alice has strong sensibilities," said Montague, "and is as unsophisticated as a child. She hides none of her feelings."
"Did you notice Miss Claremont's smile," asked Gordon.