She has a forehead so low it rests upon her eyebrows, which, by the way, have been ruled straight across the immeasurable breadth of it with a T square.  She has eyes bluer one minute than the grotto at Capri, greener the next than grass in June, grayer the next than a November day, and so on in turn through all the prismatic colors.  Her eyelashes are only not quite so long as her hair.  She has a mouth which would strike you as large,—­it is five and a half inches across,—­but when she speaks, and you hear the combined wisdom of Solomon, and Plato, and Socrates, and Solon, and the rest of the ancients (not to mention the moderns), falling from her lips, your only wonder is that her mouth keeps within its present limits.  Her nose—­Miss Phebe, can it be?  Is it possible you have left out her nose?  Soeur Angelique, I am forced to the melancholy conclusion that Gerald has none.  Miss Phebe would never have omitted mentioning it.”

“You may make all the fun of her and of me that you like,” said Phebe, half provoked.  “But there is not anybody else in the world like Gerald Vernor.  Wait till you see her.  You will say then that I was right, only that I did not say enough.”

“You shan’t tease her, Denham.  Tell me, Phebe, where did you know this friend so well?”

“Three years ago, when she spent a summer here, I saw a great deal of her,—­oh, it made it such a happy summer, knowing her!—­and I have corresponded with her ever since.”

“Without meeting her again?”

“Oh, no.  I saw her twice last summer.  I went to the train both times to see her as she passed through.”

“But our trains don’t pass through; they stop here.”

“Yes, I know; but I went to Galilee to meet her as she passed through there.”

“Would she have gone as far as that to meet you, Miss Phebe?”

“That is very different, Mr. Halloway,” answered Phebe, simply.  “I am not worth going so far for.  Besides, I don’t expect people ever to do as much for me as I would for them.”

“Denham, you are cruel,” said Mrs. Whittridge.  “Phebe, my child, your love for your friend is to me sufficient proof that she must be lovely.  I know I should love her too.”

Phebe looked at her gratefully.  “Oh, you would,—­you would indeed!  You could not help it.  You would admire her so much.  There is so much in her.”

“Ah, yes, I forgot,” interrupted Denham, “I did not finish my portrait.  This marvellous being is an athlete.  She can ride any Bucephalus produced, and rather prefers to do so bareback.  She is a Michael Angelo at painting, and has represented striking scenes from his ‘Last Judgment’ on a set of after-dinner coffee cups.  She drives, she skates, she swims, she rows, she sails, has a thorough knowledge of business, and is up in stocks, is femininely masculine and masculinely feminine, scorns novels, and can order a dinner, is a churchwoman, and dresses always in the latest style.  Is there any thing else, Miss Phebe?”