“I don’t fancy that anything I could say would impress you,” Perior replied, eyeing her little manœuvres, “and since I have seen Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go,” and at this Perior took up his music with decision; to see him assuming indifference so badly was delightful to Camelia.
“Why were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?” she demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; “you were hideously rude, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked.
“Then, why were you?”
“Because you lied.”
“Oh, what an ugly word!” cried Camelia lightly, though with a little chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior’s look she felt to be more than she had bargained for. “What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, Alceste; really, they are not becoming.”
“I hate lies,” said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the logic of the words he should hate Camelia too—for what was she but unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that the moment for plain speaking had arrived.
“And you call that a lie?”
“I call it a lie.” She considered him gravely.
“I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain.”