"Mind you," she said, laying her hand confidingly (as I then thought) on my arm, "don't you ever dare to tell Stancy that her eyes are like to the vault of heaven, or like forget-me-nots wet with dew, or like turquoises, or the very colour of her sky-blue silk scarf. For, first of all, it's not true, and it is wrong to tell lies. More than that, she will tell _me_. And I like--well" (she added this bit softly, taking a long look at me) "never mind what I like. Perhaps it's as well that you shouldn't know." Then she kicked away a pebble with the toe of one tiny boot and appeared to be embarrassed. I think, now, that she knew she had a pretty foot. Anyway I began to be conscious she was a nice girl, and to be sorry for her--a way men have. Men are such wise things, and not vain at all. Don't think I forgot. I was always just going to tell her about Elsie, when she darted off into something else. She was constantly doing that--a most ill-regulated and disconcerting girl. I knew she would certainly have been interested in Elsie. The two had so much in common. We were going through some straggling trees on the edge of Brom Common, when Harriet stopped and turned her eyes on me, as if she would have drowned me in them. I didn't know before that they were so big and dark and shiny--especially in dusky places. Harriet Caw knew, however. "What colour are my eyes," she demanded. "Quick, now, don't cheat!" "I don't know!" I said truthfully. "I never noticed." Then she got mad. You see, I had no experience and didn't know enough to make a shot at it. For girls always notice eyes--or think they do. And when they go to see a man condemned in court for extra special murder, they sigh and say, "What very nice eyes he has--who would have thought it?" And if he had been tried by a jury of girls, he would have got off every time--because of these same nice eyes. That is why the justice of a country is conducted by men. One reason, at least. "Well, then, look!" she cried, making them the size of billiard balls right under my nose. It was, I own, rather nice, but trying. I had a feeling that Elsie would not have liked it, really. So I said, "Come out where a fellow can see them then!" And made as if to go out on the moor. But Harriet Caw didn't care about the moor, being a town girl, as I suppose. "No, here--tell me now!" she said. So as I had to say something, I told her they were the colour of brown paint. That was true. They were, but she was quite mad, and gave my arm a fling. This surprised me, and I said-- "Why, I thought that you were the kind of girl who never cared to be told about her eyes, and stuff of that kind. You said just now about Miss Constantia's----"