 Harold,
»the man himself was troublesome?«
    »O you must not strain probabilities in that way. The generality of men are
perfect. Take me, for example.«
    »You are a perfect judge of sauces,« said Esther, who had her triumphs in
letting Harold know that she was capable of taking notes.
    »That is perfection number one. Pray go on.«
    »O, the catalogue is too long - I should be tired before I got to your
magnificent ruby ring and your gloves always of the right colour.«
    »If you would let me tell you your perfections, I should not be tired.«
    »That is not complimentary; it means that the list is short.«
    »No; it means that the list is pleasant to dwell upon.«
    »Pray don't begin,« said Esther, with her pretty toss of the head; »it would
be dangerous to our good understanding. The person I liked best in the world was
one who did nothing but scold me and tell me of my faults.«
    When Esther began to speak, she meant to do no more than make a remote
unintelligible allusion, feeling, it must be owned, a naughty will to flirt and
be saucy, and thwart Harold's attempts to be felicitous in compliment. But she
had no sooner uttered the words than they seemed to her like a confession. A
deep flush spread itself over her face and neck, and the sense that she was
blushing went on deepening her colour. Harold felt himself unpleasantly
illuminated as to a possibility that had never yet occurred to him. His surprise
made an uncomfortable pause, in which Esther had time to feel much vexation.
    »You speak in the past tense,« said Harold, at last; »yet I am rather
envious of that person. I shall never be able to win your regard in the same
way. Is it any one at Treby? Because in that case I can inquire about your
faults.«
    »O you know I have always lived among grave people,« said Esther, more able
to recover herself now she was spoken to. »Before I came home to be with my
father I was nothing but a school-girl first, and then a teacher in different
stages of growth. People in those circumstances are not usually flattered. But
there are varieties in fault-finding. At our Paris school the master I liked
best was an old man who stormed at me terribly when I read Racine, but yet
showed that he was proud of me.«
    Esther was getting
