It was a nice face, Magda decided, with a dogged, squarish jaw that appealed to a certain tenacity of spirit which was one of her own unchildish characteristics, and the keen dark-grey eyes she encountered were so unlike the cold light-grey of her father's that it seemed ridiculous the English language could only supply the one word "grey" to describe things that were so totally dissimilar.
"They're like eyes with little fires behind them," Magda told herself.
Then smiled at their owner radiantly.
"Are you the Fairy Queen ?" he repeated gravely.
She regarded him with increasing approval.
"Yes," she assented graciously.

"These are my woods." "Then I'm afraid I've been trespassing in your majesty's domain," admitted the grey-eyed man.

"But your woods are so beautiful I simply had to try and make a sketch of them." Magda came back to earth with promptitude.
"Oh, are you an artist ?" she demanded eagerly.
He nodded, smiling.
"I'm trying to be." "Let me look." She flashed past him and planted herself in front of the easel.
"_Mais, c'est bon!_" she commented coolly.

"Me, I know.

We have good pictures at home.