“If you will depart from here alone,” I retorted, “you shall find it the easiest thing in the world. For, in truth, it is not desire for your society that brings me here.”
He lifted a hand and tugged at his mustache.
“You have, perhaps, been to the convent?” he hazarded.
“I have just come from there,” I rejoined.
“I am not an Englishman,” said he, curling the end of the mustache, “and I do not know how plain an intimation need be to discourage one of your resolute race. For my part, I should have thought that when a lady accepts the escort of one gentleman, it means that she does not desire that of another.”
He said this with a great air and an assumption of dignity that contrasted strongly with the unrestrained paroxysms of the night before. I take it that success—or what seems such—may transform a man as though it changed his very skin. But I was not skilled to cross swords with him in talk of that kind, so I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the shutter and said bluntly:
“God knows what lies you told her, you see.”
His white face suddenly flushed; but he held himself in and retorted with a sneer:
“A disabled right arm gives a man fine courage.”
“Nonsense!” said I. “I can aim as well with my left;” and that indeed was not very far from the truth. And I went on: “Is she here?”