I’m a blonde, you know,—­none of your silver-washed things.  I wouldn’t give a fico for a girl with flaxen hair; she might as well be a wax doll, and have her eyes moved by a wire; besides, they’ve no souls.  I imagine they were remnants at our creation, and somehow scrambled together, and managed to get up a little life among themselves; but it’s good for nothing, and everybody sees through the pretence.  They’re glass chips, and brittle shavings, slender pinkish scrids,—­no name for them; but just you say blonde, soft and slow and rolling,—­it brings up a brilliant, golden vitality, all manner of white and torrid magnificences, and you see me!  I’ve watched little bugs—­gold rose-chafers—­lie steeping in the sun, till every atom of them must have been searched with the warm radiance, and have felt, that, when they reached that point, I was just like them, golden all through,—­not dyed, but created.  Sunbeams like to follow me, I think.  Now, when I stand in one before this glass, infiltrated with the rich tinge, don’t I look like the spirit of it just stepped out for inspection?  I seem to myself like the complete incarnation of light, full, bounteous, overflowing, and I wonder at and adore anything so beautiful; and the reflection grows finer and deeper while I gaze, till I dare not do so any longer.  So, without more words, I’m a golden blonde.  You see me now:  not too tall,—­five feet four; not slight, or I couldn’t have such perfect roundings, such flexible moulding.  Here’s nothing of the spiny Diana and Pallas, but Clytie or Isis speaks in such delicious curves.  It don’t look like flesh and blood, does it?  Can you possibly imagine it will ever change?  Oh!

Now see the face,—­not small, either; lips with no particular outline, but melting, and seeming as if they would stain yours, should you touch them.  No matter about the rest, except the eyes.  Do you meet such eyes often?  You wouldn’t open yours so, if you did.  Note their color now, before the ray goes.  Yellow hazel?  Not a bit of it!  Some folks say topaz, but they’re fools.  Nor sherry.  There’s a dark sardine base, but over it real seas of light, clear light; there isn’t any positive color; and once when I was angry, I caught a glimpse of them in a mirror, and they were quite white, perfectly colorless, only luminous.  I looked like a fiend, and, you may be sure, recovered my temper directly,—­easiest thing in the world, when you’ve motive enough.  You see the pupil is small, and that gives more expansion and force to the irides; but sometimes in an evening, when I’m too gay, and a true damask settles in the cheek, the pupil grows larger and crowds out the light, and under these thick, brown lashes, these yellow-hazel eyes of yours, they are dusky and purple and deep with flashes, like pansies lit by fire-flies, and then common folks call them black.  Be sure, I’ve never got such eyes for nothing, any more than this hair.  That is Lucrezia Borgian, spun gold, and ought to take the world in its toils.  I always wear these thick, riotous curls round my temples and face; but the great braids behind—­oh, I’ll uncoil them before my toilet is over.