Some softening quality in the quiet beauty of the night, or it may have been in the sight of the partly turned face, with its look of hurt distress, penetrated the man’s consciousness. His mood changed; a kinder note banished the harshness from his voice. He had wounded her deliberately, and he regretted it.
“I’m a brute,” he said in altered tones. “Don’t heed my roughness; it is not meant. I had no wish to offend.”
“You did not offend,” she answered. “But I am afraid that I did.”
“No,” he said, but without conviction, she thought. “I asked for truth, and I got it. Perhaps that is what surprised me. The last thing a man expects to hear is the truth about himself. I didn’t credit you with the possession of so much courage.”
“It has all evaporated,” she said.
“The courage!” he laughed. “Oh! I think not. It has merely gone under for the time.”
And then he turned the conversation, and closed the matter, as she felt, finally. She had no means of knowing whether his resentment of her plain speaking still rankled. A sort of constraint had fallen between them. She felt self-conscious, and rather like a child who has been rebuked. But she did not regret having spoken as she had done. The barriers of pretence were down; there existed a clear understanding between them. As she walked rather silently with him in the moonlight she resolved that on the morrow she would invite him to accompany her again.