"Dare! What do you mean? The witnessing of it, or telling you of it?"
She scorned reply; he was really too contemptible! Yet the woman in her bubbled to the surface; she could not resist an effort to hurt him:
"And you—you played the spy!"
A raising of his shoulders, a lowering of his eyes, as he answered:
"Call it so if you wish."
He really did not care what she thought of him; plainly showed that. The indifference roused her; she tried again. Spoke with forced quietness—standing a little way from him—her voice full of contempt:
"There is a man bearing your name in the High Street: a blacksmith. I could understand such behaviour on his part. But—a—gentleman!"
Her satisfaction came then: she had hurt. A deep flush streamed over his face, then faded altogether away, except for two red streaks.
"Am I not behaving as one?"
Keenly sensitive to her rebuke, he spoke half-apologetically. The bitterness of the incident was making him more himself. Brought home to him, forcefully, the irony of things.