As a means of carrying out this promise, he props himself up with a branch of the tree on which she is sitting--a branch on a level with her dainty little silk-clad feet.

He has leant both his arms on it, and now involuntarily his eyes rest upon her shoes.

"What beautiful feet you have!" says he slowly.
It is a perfectly Machiavellian speech.

Tita's feet are beyond argument, and there is not a woman in _this_ world, any way, who has beautiful feet, who doesn't want everyone to tell her all about them.
"No, no; they're nothing," says she, making a pretence of tucking up the much-maligned feet in question under her frock, which basely fails to help her.
But even as she says this she smiles--reluctantly, no doubt; but, still, she _does_ smile--and casts a glance at Rylton from under her long lashes.

It is a delightful look--half pleased, half defiant, wholly sweet.
"Forgive me, Tita!" says her husband quickly.
"I don't want you to talk to me like that," says she, with a frown.
"But I must say that.