Socially, we may be all easily divided into two classes in this
world--at least in the civilized part of it. If we are not the people
whom others talk about, then we are sure to be the people who talk
about others. The young lady who had just entered Mr. Blyth's
painting-room, belonged to the former order of human beings.
She seemed fated to be used as a constant subject of conversation by
her fellow-creatures. Even her face alone--simply as a face--could not
escape perpetual discussion; and that, too, among Valentine's friends,
who all knew her well, and loved her dearly. It was the oddest thing in
the world, but no one of them could ever agree with another (except on
a certain point, to be presently mentioned) as to which of her personal
attractions ought to be first selected for approval, or quoted as
particularly asserting her claims to the admiration of all worshippers
of beauty.
To take three or four instances of this. There was Mr. Gimble, the
civil little picture-dealers and a very good friend in every way to
Valentine: there was Mr. Gimble, who declared that her principal charm
was in her complexion--her fair, clear, wonderful complexion--which he
would defy any artist alive to paint, let him try ever so hard, or be
ever so great a man.
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