"Say, was. He is so no longer. He and I are out. But for that, think you I had even listened to—what you have been saying to me this ever so long?"
"Oh, that alters the case," said George. "But stay!" and he knitted his brows and reflected. Up to a moment ago the loftiness of Catherine Peyton's demeanor, and the celestial something in her soul-like dreamy eyes, had convinced him she was a creature free from the small dishonesty and duplicity he had noted in so many women otherwise amiable and good.
But this business of the letter had shaken the illusion.
"Stay," said he stiffly. "You say Mr. Gaunt and you are out."
Catherine assented by a movement of her fair head.
"And he is leaving the country. Perhaps this letter is to keep him from leaving the country?"
"Only until he has buried his benefactor," murmured Kate, in deprecating accents.
George wore a bitter sneer at this. "Mistress Kate," said he, after a significant pause, "do you read Molière?"
She bridled a little, and would not reply; she knew Molière quite well enough not to want his wit leveled at her head.
"Do you admire the character of Célimène?"