"You have a very high opinion of Beauclerk," says he.
"Have I?" laughing uneasily, and refusing to let her rising temper give way. "We all have our opinions on every subject that comes under our notice. You have one on this subject evidently."
"Yes, but it is not a high one," says he unpleasantly.
"After all, what does that matter? I don't pretend to understand you. I will only suggest to you that our opinions are but weak things—mere prejudices—no more."
"I am not prejudiced against Beauclerk, if you mean that," a little hotly.
"I didn't," with a light shrug. "Believe me, you think a great deal more about him than I do."
"Are you sure of that?"
"I am at all events sure of one thing," says she quickly darting at him a frowning glance, "that you have no right to ask me that question."
"I have not indeed," acknowledges he stiffly still, but with so open an apology in his whole air that she forgives him. "Many conflicting thoughts led me astray. I must ask your pardon."
"Why, granted!" says she. "And—I was cross, wasn't I? After all an old friend like you might be allowed a little laxity. There, never mind," holding out her hand. "Let us make it up."