RODERICK HUDSON
my arm you 'd see. But I want to tell you that I admire Miss Garland more than any of the people who call themselves her friends—except of course you. Oh, I know that! To begin with she 's extremely handsome and she has n't the least idea of it. Now that by itself, you know—!"
"She's not generally thought handsome," Rowland conscientiously said.
"Evidently! That 's the vulgarity of the taste of the rabble. Her head has great character, great natural style. If a woman 's not to scream out from every pore that she has an appearance—which is a most awful fate—quite the best thing for her is to carry that sort of dark lantern. On occasion she can flash it as far as she likes. She 'll not be thought pretty by people in general and desecrated as she passes by the stare of every vile wretch who chooses to thrust his nose under her bonnet; but a certain number of intelligent people will find it one of the delightful things of life to look at her. That lot 's as good as another. And then your friend has every virtue under heaven."
"You found that out soon," Rowland laughed.
"How long did it take you? I found it out before I ever spoke to her. I met her the other week in Saint Peter's; I knew it then. I knew it—do you want to know how long I 've known it?"
"Really," said Rowland, "I didn't mean to cross-examine you."
"Do you remember mamma's ball in December? We had some talk and you then mentioned her—not by name. You said but three words, but
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