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.

Then came the Dowager Countess of Brambledown, the frolicsome old aristocrat, who was generally believed to be "a little cracked;" who haunted Mr.Blyth's studio, after having once given him an order to paint her rare China tea-service, and her favorite muff, in one group; and who differed entirely from the little picture-dealer.
"Fiddle-de-dee!" cried her ladyship, scornfully, on hearing Mr.Gimble's opinion quoted one day.

"The man may know something about pictures, but he is an idiot about women.