VIII
"Look here—I want to know about your sister," the elder abruptly began.
His visitor arched fine eyebrows. "Now that I think of it you've never yet made her the subject of a question."
"Well, I guess I know why."
"If it's because you don't trust me, you're very right," said Valentin. "I can't talk of her rationally. I admire her too much."
"Talk of her as you can," Newman returned, "and if I don't like it I'll stop you."
"Well we're very good friends; such a brother and sister as have n't been known since Orestes and Electra. You've seen her enough to have taken her in: tall, slim, imposing, gentle, half a grande dame and half an angel; a mixture of 'type' and simplicity, of the eagle and the dove. She looks like a statue that has failed as cold stone, resigned itself to its defects and come to life as flesh and blood, to wear white capes and long soft trains. All I can say is that she really possesses every merit that the face she has, the eyes she has, the smile she has, the tone of voice she has, the whole way she has, lead you to expect; and is n't it saying quite enough? As a general thing when a woman seems from the first as right as that, she's altogether wrong—you've only to look out. But in proportion as you take
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