"What a conceited set of people you men must be!" said I.
"Well, we are rather a bad set," answered Guy, laughing. "O little Elaine, thou art so funny!"
"Pray, what is there funny about me?" said I. "And please to tell me, Guy, why men always seem to fancy that women do not know their own minds?"
"Well, they don't," said Guy.
"Only the silly ones, who have no minds to know," I replied.
"Just so," answered he. "But those, thou seest, are the generality of women. Rubies are scarce; pebbles are common."
"Only among women?" said I.
"Possibly not," responded Guy, looking very much amused. "Poor De Montluc appears to be a ruby in his own eyes, and I presume he is only a pebble in thine. Let us hope that Damoiselle Melisende will consider him a gem of priceless value."
Well, I am sure I have no objection to that.
But another idea occurs to me, which is by no means so pleasant. Since other people are always misunderstanding me, can it be possible that I am constantly misunderstanding other people? I do think I have misunderstood Eschine, and I am sorry for it. I like her a great deal better now than I ever expected to do, and I almost admire that quiet endurance of hers—partly because I feel Amaury so trying, and partly, I suspect, because I have so little of the quality myself. But is it—can it be—possible that I am misunderstanding Count Raymond?