s she was a nice girl, and to be sorry for
her--a way men have. Men are such wise things, and not vain at all.

Don't think I forgot. I was always just going to tell her about Elsie,
when she darted off into something else. She was constantly doing
that--a most ill-regulated and disconcerting girl. I knew she would
certainly have been interested in Elsie. The two had so much in common.

We were going through some straggling trees on the edge of Brom Common,
when Harriet stopped and turned her eyes on me, as if she would have
drowned me in them. I didn't know before that they were so big and
dark and shiny--especially in dusky places. Harriet Caw knew, however.

"What colour are my eyes," she demanded. "Quick, now, don't cheat!"

"I don't know!" I said truthfully. "I never noticed."

Then she got mad. You see, I had no experience and didn't know enough
to make a shot at it. For girls always notice eyes--or think they do.
And when they go to see a man condemned in court for extra special
murder, they sigh and say, "What very nice eyes he has--who would have
thought it?"

And if he had been tried by a jury of girls, he would have got off
every time--because of these same nice eyes. That is why the justice
of a country is conducted by men. One reason, at least.

"Well, then, look!" she cried, making them the size of billiard balls
right under my nose. It was, I own, rather nice, but trying. I had a
feeling that Elsie would not have liked it, really.

So I said, "Come out where a fellow can see them then!" And made as if
to go out on the moor. But Harriet Caw didn't care about the moor,
being a town girl, as I suppose.

"No, here--tell me now!" she said.

So as I had to say something, I told her they were the colour of brown
paint.

That was true. They were, but she was quite mad, and gave my arm a
fling. This surprised me, and I said--

"Why, I thought that you were the kind of girl who never cared to be
told about her eyes, and stuff of that kind. You said just now about
Miss Constantia's----"

"Never mind about M--iss Con-stan-ti-a's," she said, making the word as
long as she could--she was mad now and patting the short, stiff heather
with her little bronze boot; "attend to me, if you please. And so you
think my eyes are the colour of brown paint; is that the best you can
do?"

I thought a while, and she kept glaring up at me till I felt like a hen
with its beak to a chalk line--I for