"Pardon me, Mistress Barbara," he said, eyeing her coolly. "Your doublet is awry."
Instantly she dropped her rapier, her hands flew to her waist, she looked down in deep consternation. All her newborn resolution had vanished, she was but a woman once more.
"My doublet is not your concern, sir," she muttered.
"Your pardon, madame," he answered pleasantly. "I should in truth have thought a doublet rather my concern than yours; but as you will. If you prefer to wear it thus, of course——"
"I—I knew not exactly how it should be worn," she faltered, glancing doubtfully at her figure. Then recollecting herself she continued angrily. "My dress is my own affair, sir. Why should I not play the Rosalind, an it so please me?"
"No reason whatever, Mistress Barbara," he continued lightly. "I can only rejoice at my good fortune in being present at the performance. By my faith, the dress becomes you wondrous well." And again he submitted her to a critical survey from head to foot.
Her head drooped, her breast heaved, and turning suddenly from him she sank into a chair and burying her face in her outstretched arms upon the table, she burst into bitter sobs.
Captain Protheroe regarded her doubtfully.
"Woman's last weapon?" he queried with a cynical laugh.
The sobs redoubled in force; they shook her whole body.