“I should be ashamed if you had ingratitude in your composition, for God only knows what other defects have been implanted in you to counterbalance your beauty.”
Andrea leaped to her feet at this.
“Forgive me,” said he, “but you gall me too much at times and I forget the interest you inspire.”
Andrea burst out into such hearty laughter that the lover ought to have been lifted to the height of wrath; but to her great astonishment, Gilbert did not kindle. He folded his arms on his breast, retaining his hostile expression and fiery look, and patiently waited for the end of her outraging merriment.
“Deign, young lady,” said he coldly, “to reply to one question. Do you respect your father?”
“It looks, sirrah, as if you took the liberty of putting questions to me,” she replied with the greatest haughtiness.
“Yes, you respect your father,” he went on, “not on account of any parts of his or virtues: but simply because he gave you life. For this same boon, you are bound to love the benefactor. This laid down as a principle,” said the loving philosopher, “why do you insult me—why repulse me and hate me—who have not given you life, but I prevented you losing it.”
“You—you saved my life?” cried Andrea.
“You have not thought of it—rather, you have forgotten it; it is quite natural, for it was a year ago. Therefore I must remind or inform you. Yes, I saved your life at the risk of losing my own.”
“I should like to learn where and when?” said Andrea.