The things we do!

The shadows in Rosey's face, sir,
are all pearly-tinted. You ought to paint her in milk, sir!" cries the
enthusiast. "Have you ever remarked the grey round her eyes, and the sort
of purple bloom of her cheek? Rubens could have done the colour: but I
don't somehow like to think of a young lady and that sensuous old Peter
Paul in company. I look at her like a little wild-flower in a field--like
a little child at play, sir. Pretty little tender nursling! If I see her
passing in the street, I feel as if I would like some fellow to be rude
to her, that I might have the pleasure of knocking him down. She is like
a little songbird, sir,--a tremulous, fluttering little linnet that you
would take into your hand, pavidam quaerentem matrem, and smooth its
little plumes, and let it perch on your finger and sing. The Sherrick
creates quite a different sentiment--the Sherrick is splendid, stately,
sleepy----"
"Stupid," hints Clive's companion.
"Stupid! Why not? Some women ought to be stupid.


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