"I admit nothing, except that I do not like to be called a coquette."
I saw she was in earnest here; there was almost a choke in her voice.
"But I would not have you otherwise," I objected.
She shook her bead. "You say that only because you think you hurt me."
"Don't you know your bright and happy disposition is a thing beyond price?" I argued.
"I know its price is heavy—I have paid it to you just now—I am paying it every day of my life." There were tears in the voice.
I was at a loss what to say. A man is an awkward comforter at best, and when he is guilty of bringing on the trouble, he is sure only to make a worse mess of it. So I held my tongue and we rode a while in silence.
She spoke first. "I know you are quite justified in your notion of me," she said. "I have given you every reason to call me coquette, flirt, or anything of that sort."
I raised my hand in protest.
"No, let me finish," she went on. "I have only myself to blame for it. I was warned against you before I ever saw you; and, so, I tried to play your own game from the start." (I hope I had the grace to blush; I think I had.) "But the other night, somehow, the game got too fast for me—and I—well, I bungled. But whether you believe me or not, Major Dalberg, I want to say, as a solace to myself, at least, that you are the only man who ever kissed my face."