Perior hardly believed her, and yet he was much confused, especially as with a fresh access of sobs her face quivered in the pathetic grimace of loveliness distorted; before that the real issue of the situation seemed slipping away; her repudiation of the greater dishonesty effaced, for the moment, the smaller; he had nothing to say—she probably believed in herself; and those helpless sobs were so touching to him that, notwithstanding his unappeased anger against her, he could have gone to her and taken her in his arms to comfort her, at any cost—even at the cost of seeming to ask pardon. He did not do this, however, but said, “Don’t cry, don’t cry, Camelia; you mustn’t cry. I’m glad you feel it in that way; I am glad you can cry over it.” He did not go to her, but his very attitude of nervous hesitation told Camelia that he was worsted—at least worsted enough for the practical purposes of the moment.
She got out her handkerchief and dried her eyes, still feeling very sore-hearted, very much injured; but when the tears were gone she came up to him saying, while she looked at him with all the victorious pathos of wet lashes and trembling lips, “You are not kind to me, Alceste.”
He moved away from her a little, but took her hands. “Because you are naughty, Célimène.”
“I will be good. I won’t tell fibs.”
“A very commendable resolution.”
“You mock me. You won’t believe a liar.”
“Don’t, please don’t speak of it again, Camelia.”
“Say you are sorry for having said it.”
“Oh, you little rogue!” Taking her face between his hands he studied it with a sad curiosity. “I am sorry for having had to say it.”
“Oh, prig, prig, prig.” She smiled at him now from the narrow frame, her own delicious smile.