“How can I forget his suffering? But,” he hastened to add, “since I have known you, I can’t believe that caprice or heartlessness caused it. There must have been something I don’t understand, and I am certain you could explain it if you would.”
Among Cupid’s pitfalls there is no occupation so dangerous as for two persons to discuss each other’s sins and virtues—none perhaps more attractive. Wareham would have pointed this out in his books, yet here he was floundering. And Anne? Was she playing Will-o’-the-Wisp? She looked at him again.
“I suppose you expect me to drop a curtsey, and offer a meek thank you?”
“I don’t expect the impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“I can’t imagine the meekness.”
“Your own fault. You don’t inspire it. You try to ruffle my temper.”
“What is that but giving you an opportunity to display the virtue? You can’t display meekness without cause for it.”
“Cause for it?” Anne struck back. “You offer cause freely!”
“Oh!”