"Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?" blazing.
"I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I had the courage to release you."
Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason that the right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers. Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gathering coolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth. Her handkerchief, which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk. He picked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.
"That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me."
"I will give it back some day," he replied, thrusting the bit of cambric into his blouse.
"Now, Monsieur; at once!" she commanded.
"There was a time when I obeyed you in all things. This handkerchief will do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion to write. Do you remember that line, 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times?' That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on my word of honor, had I it now …"
"Monsieur du Cévennes," she said, "I will this day write an answer to your annoying proposal. I trust that you will be gentleman enough to accept it as final. I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and my words do justice neither to you nor to me. Yes, I had a purpose, a woman's purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it."
"Your purpose, Madame, is nothing; mine is everything." He bowed and departed, the heron feather in his hat showing boldly.
It was almost a complete victory, for he had taken with him her woman's prerogative, the final word. He strode resolutely along, never once turning his head … not having the courage. But, had he turned, certain it is that he must have stopped.