"Yes; but is that strange--are not all people beautiful?"

I thought of certain London types, especially among the "criminal
classes," and of the old women with withered, simian faces and wearing
shawls, slinking in or out of public-houses at the street corners; and
also of some people of a better class I had known personally--some even
in the House of Commons; and I felt that I could not agree with her,
much as I wished to do so, without straining my conscience.

"At all events, you will allow," said I, evading the question, "that
there are _degrees_ of beauty, just as there are degrees of light.
You may be able to see to work in this light, but it is very faint
compared with the noonday light when the sun is shining."

"Oh, there is not so great a difference between people as _that_,"
she replied, with the air of a philosopher. "There are different kinds
of beauty, I allow, and some people seem more beautiful to us than
others, but that is only because we love them more. The best loved are
always the most beautiful."

This seemed to reverse the usual idea, that the more beautiful the
person is the more he or she gets loved. However, I was not going to
disagree with her any more, and only said: "How sweetly you talk,
Yoletta; you are as wise as you are beautiful. I could wish for no
greater pleasure than to sit here listening to you the whole evening."

"Ah, then, I am sorry I must leave you now," she answered, with a bright
smile which made me think that perhaps my little speech had pleased her.