“Herr Courvoisier, have you forgiven me?”
“Forgiven you what?”
“My rudeness to you once.”
“Ah, mein Fräulein,” said he, shrugging his shoulders a little and smiling slightly, “you are under a delusion about that circumstance. How can I forgive that which I never resented?”
This was putting the matter in a new, and, for me, an humbling light.
“Never resented!” I murmured, confusedly.
“Never. Why should I resent it? I forgot myself, nicht wahr! and you showed me at one and the same time my proper place and your own excellent good sense. You did not wish to know me, and I did not resent it. I had no right to resent it.”
“Excuse me,” said I, my voice vibrating against my will; “you are wrong there, and either you are purposely saying what is not true, or you have not the feelings of a gentleman.” His arm sprung a little aside as I went on, amazed at my own boldness. “I did not show you your ‘proper place.’ I did not show my own good sense. I showed my ignorance, vanity, and surprise. If you do not know that, you are not what I take you for—a gentleman.”
“Perhaps not,” said he, after a pause. “You certainly did not take me for one then. Why should I be a gentleman? What makes you suppose I am one?”
Questions which, however satisfactorily I might answer them to myself, I could not well reply to in words. I felt that I had rushed upon a topic which could not be explained, since he would not own himself offended. I had made a fool of myself and gained nothing by it. While I was racking my brain for some satisfactory closing remark, we turned a corner and came into the Wehrhahn. A clock struck seven.