"Is that so?" she says. "Sometimes I have thought it, but——"
The unmistakable hope her pause contains angers him afresh.
"If you covet the unenviable title," he says, bitterly, "be happy. You can lay just claim to it. You are more than worthy of it."
"You flatter me," she says, letting a glance so light rest upon him that it seems but the mere quiver of her eyelids.
"I meant no flattery, believe me."
"I do believe you: I quite understand."
"Not quite, I think," exclaims he, the sudden coldness of her manner frightening him into better behavior. "If—if I have said anything to offend you, I ask your forgiveness."
"There is nothing to forgive, indeed, and you have failed to offend me. But," slowly, "you have made me very sorry for you."
"Sorry?"
"Yes, for your most unhappy temper. It is quite the worst, I think, I have ever met with. Good-night Mr. Desmond: pray be careful when going through that hedge again; there are some rose-trees growing in it, and thorns do hurt so dreadfully."