I have smelled considerable powder in active service, and I think I may say I have a fair amount of courage, but it had all oozed away before the grieving tones and melting eyes of beauty in distress; and in another moment I should have cut and run like the rankest coward. For, what would you? A handsome woman (none I had ever seen, not even the Princess, surpassed her) almost in tears beside you—and all because of your own clumsy tongue and heavy sense.
I opened my mouth to speak; but the words did not come. In truth, my brain would not act. I was vacant of ideas. And so she waited; while our horses walked with heads together, friendly as old stable chums. Then I found my tongue.
"My dear Lady Helen," I said, "I owe you an apology for what I did that night."
"You owe me nothing," she broke in. "You know perfectly well that when a woman is kissed in that way she has only herself to blame."
"But it takes two to make a bargain," I insisted; "and it was I who did it."
"Tell me," she demanded, "tell me honestly; you didn't imagine I would be angry?—you felt perfectly easy about it at the time?"
I bungled again, of course: I hesitated.
She laughed scornfully. "You have answered me, Major Dalberg."
"No," said I, "I have not. You were angry at the instant, though you chose to act otherwise. I thought so, then; I am sure of it now."
A feeble smile touched her lips. "Confess, that you then thought the anger only assumed."