"That I was not going under my own name? That I was the son of a bookseller, and ashamed of it?"
He could not help showing a trace of bitterness in his tone. At any rate, she thought there was bitterness. She looked at him humbly—for Lettice was destitute of the pride which smaller natures use in self-defence when they are proved to be in the wrong—and said,
"Yes, I am afraid I thought so at the moment."
"At what moment?"
"Do not ask me! I am very sorry."
"And glad to find that you were mistaken?"
"I am very glad."
He tried to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him again.
"It was my own fault," he said. "I was going to mention my connection with your father's bookseller that morning; but—you know—my feelings ran away with me. I told you things more to my discredit, did I not?"
"I remember nothing to your discredit. Certainly what you have told me now is not to your discredit."