However, at last, Severne, having asserted his rights, as he thought, gave way, but not without a sufficient motive, as may be gathered from his first word to Fanny.
“My dear friend, for Heaven's sake, what is the matter? She is angry with me about something. What is it? has she told you?”
“Not a word. But I see she is in a fury with you; and really it is too ridiculous. You told a fib; that is the mighty matter, I do believe. No, it isn't; for you have told her a hundred, no doubt, and she liked you all the better; but this time you have been naughty enough to be found out, and she is romantic, and thinks her lover ought to be the soul of truth.”
“Well, and so he ought,” said Ned.
“He isn't, then;” and Fanny burst out laughing so loud that Zoe turned round and enveloped them both in one haughty glance, as the exaggerating Gaul would say.
“La! there was a look for you!” said Fanny, pertly: “as if I cared for her black brows.”
“I do, though: pray remember that.”
“Then tell no more fibs. Such a fuss about nothing! What is a fib?” and she turned up her little nose very contemptuously at all such trivial souls as minded a little mendacity.
Indeed, she disclaimed the importance of veracity so imperiously that Severne was betrayed into saying, “Well, not much, between you and me; and I'll be bound I can explain it.”
“Explain it to me, then.”