'I should be disappointed in myself, if I were a man who had been capable of such an innocent, sweet affection as yours for Hélène de la Granjolaye, and had then gone and soiled myself with the mud of what they call life.' She spoke earnestly; her face was grave and sad.
He was surprised, and a little alarmed. 'Do you mean by that that you think I'm a bad lot?' he asked.
'You said the other day—yesterday was it?—that you had made a fool of yourself on various occasions.'
'Well?'
'Did the process not generally involve making a fool of a woman too?'
'Reciprocity? Perhaps.'
'And what was it you always said to them?'
'Oh, I suppose I did.'
'You told them you loved them?'
'I'm afraid so.'