“I saw you laughing at it, with Perior—not that he laughed. I heard what he said too, I prefer that, you know.”
Camelia herself was feeling wounded, was smarting under a sense of angry humiliation. This added and unexpected blow brought the blood vividly to her face, and the sincerity of her discomfort seemed even to herself to warrant the sincerity of her quick question.
“You suspect me of lying?”
Camelia hardly thought that she had lied; neither the flush nor the tone of voice was acted.
Sir Arthur looked away. “I saw you laughing,” he repeated.
“I was laughing,” Camelia declared. “Not at Lady Henge,” she added.
Sir Arthur kept a silence in which doubt and a longing to believe evidently struggled.
“I said to Mr. Perior that the rocking passage with the chord accompaniment made me feel seasick—from its realism; that touch of levity doesn’t imply insincerity in my admiration—I always smile at the birds in the ‘Pastoral.’ Why should I be insincere? If I had not liked it, I would have said so.”
Sir Arthur’s long breath escaped with the relief of recovered joy.
“Don’t be insincere;—dearest,” he added, looking at her; and seeing the surprise with which she received the grave, impulsive word, he went on quickly, yet gently.