"I'm so sorry, dear. I seem to get so clumsy."
He, too, was sorry, though for something other than he now declared. He apologised and blamed himself for being a fool; while in his heart he felt that his folly lay, not in his anger, but the display of it. The watcher had lifted a corner and peered from its concealment; the banked fires had broken into a visible flame. He had been betrayed by the accident of her apology, and shown her something he had no desire to show her.
Her next word accentuated his error.
"I hoped you would have mentioned it and given me a talking to. I deserved it."
"Seeing that I've never chidden you for anything on God's earth in my life, it wasn't very likely I should begin to-night, was it?"
"I might be happier if you did chide me. I dare say I do many things you hate; if you told me so, I wouldn't do them again."
"You may be right; but it's contrary to my nature to play schoolmaster. Where I don't like a thing and can change it myself, I do; but where others are concerned, if it's not my place to order, I don't order."
"I know; but if you'd order oftener, or express an opinion as you have to-night, we might all be quicker to do your will."
"Women like tyrants, it's said," he replied. "But I'm not built that way, and if wit and love can't see to please without being ordered—so much the worse. Forget it; forget it."
"No," she answered. "I'll take very good care not to forget it, Jacob."