“I tried to restore the balance.”
“I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little—from mere kindness.”
“And I think it wrong to lie. And,” Perior added, his voice taking on an added depth of indignant scorn, “you lied to Arthur; I saw you.”
“You saw!” Camelia could not repress a little gasp.
“I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his mother’s performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I can’t imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia.”
Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor’s smiling calm. Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest after moments of most generous self-doubt—atoning moments, as she felt. The playful game in which she would tease him into comprehension—absolution, had been turned into an ugly punishment. The wrinkled rose leaves of self-accusation that had disturbed her serenity had actually—in his hands—grown into thorny branches, and he was whipping her with them. She had never felt so at a loss, for she could not laugh.
“You would have had me pain him too!” she cried, her anger vindictively seeking a retaliatory lash. “Well, you are a prig!—an insufferable prig! I did nothing wrong!—except mistake your sense of humor.”
This was certainly on her side a less dignified colloquy than the one with the looking-glass; she fancied that Perior looked with some curiosity at her anger.
“Was it wrong to smile at you, then?” she said.
“Yes, it was wrong.” Perior had all the advantage of calm, and she was helplessly aware that her excitement fortified his self-control.