“Of course,” he said, dropping it on the mantelpiece,--“just as you like. Now let's go back to Tom. You see,”--he sat down, and tipping his chair a little, gave her a rather curious smile,--“Tom and I have been enigmas to each other always, deeply attached and hopelessly incomprehensible, and I had my own ideas of what Tom would marry--and--you are not it;--not in the least!” He leant forward and brought his puzzled gaze to bear upon her. She settled deeply into her chair, half to get farther away from those searching gray eyes, half because she was taking terrible risks, and she might as well enjoy it; the chair was so comfortable, and the fire so cheerful, and Amory--it occurred to her with a sort of exhilaration what it would be to please him. She had pleased other people, why not him? Her lids drooped; she looked down at her shabby gloves. “What did you expect?” she said. He leant back and laughed. “What did I expect? Well, frankly, a silly little blond thing, all curls and furbelows!” She raised those heavy lids of hers and gazed straight at him. “Was that Tom's description?” she asked, and raised her eyebrows. They were delicately pencilled, and Amory watched her and noted them. “No,” he answered; “he didn't describe you, but I thought that was his taste. Now, you are neither silly nor little; no blonde; you have no curls and no furbelows. In fact”--he smiled with something delightfully intimate in his eyes--“in fact, you are much more the kind of girl _I_ should like to marry.” It gave her an absurd little thrill. She sat up, rebellious. “If _I_ would have liked you,” she returned. Amory laughed and put his hands in his pockets. “Of course,” he said; “but you would, you know!” “Why?” she demanded, opening her eyes very wide; and again he inwardly complimented her on her eyebrows, and above them her hair grew in a charming line on her forehead. The little points are all pretty, he thought, and it is the details that count in the long run. How much one could grow to dislike blurry eyebrows and ugly ears, even if a woman had rosy cheeks and golden hair! “Why? Because I should bully you into it. I'm an obstinate kind of creature, and get things by hanging on. Women give in if you worry them long enough. But tell me more about Tom,” he went on. “Did he dance and shoot his way into your heart? I wish I'd been there to see! You take a very bad tintype, by the way. Tom sent me that.” He got up, and taking a picture from the mantelpiece, tossed it into her lap, and leaning over the back of her chair, looked down on it. “Have you a sentiment about it?” he added, smiling. “It does look like Tom.”