"In fact, you wonder that I can like any one so unlike the stilted heroes of romance? Well! give me my flesh and blood lover, and I'll leave all the Sir Herberts and Valentines to you—if you can find them."
"I don't want them," said she. "I'll be satisfied with flesh and blood too—only the spirit must shine through and predominate. But don't you think Mr. Huntingdon's face is too red?"
"No!" cried I, indignantly. "It is not red at all. There is just a pleasant glow—a healthy freshness in his complexion, the warm, pinky tint of the whole harmonizing with the deeper colour of the cheeks, exactly as it ought to do. I hate a man to be red and white, like a painted doll—or all sickly white, or smoky black, or cadaverous yellow!"
"Well, tastes differ—but I like pale or dark," replied she. "But, to tell you the truth Helen, I had been deluding myself with the hope that you would one day be my sister. I
