The girl's pale cheeks were now touched with a delicate carmine, such as shines between the fingers of a hand held up against a light. The flush seemed to heighten and enhance her beauty, or rather it lent her a novel kindling charm that struck home upon Rallywood's mood.
'What have you been doing?' she asked with interest.
'Breaking glasses with the Guard,' he replied.
'That ceremony occasionally includes the use of a sword or a pistol.'
'I have used neither,' he replied.
'Are you then also a diplomatist?' she asked with quick scorn.
Rallywood pulled his moustache. He did not pretend to understand women, but that Mademoiselle Selpdorf should now despise him for escaping a danger she had half an hour ago trembled over and prayed to avert, seemed at best rather inconsistent.
'I have attempted to be diplomatic now and then, perhaps,' he said, 'but not always with conspicuous success.'
'Diplomacy was never meant,' she said, looking frowningly at him through her black lashes, 'never meant to be a private virtue. Its only excuse lies in a national necessity.'
'M. Selpdorf instructed me to avoid a quarrel,' rejoined Rallywood.