"How stupid of me!" she exclaimed. "I ought to have felt that at once."
There was another spell of silence; he intensely absorbed in his brush, she obviously considering.
"I am not really like that," she said at last.
He stood away from the canvas, glanced critically at certain points, levelled his mahl-stick at her, took up a rag, and wiped a bit out. "Like what?" he asked.
"Like women."
"But you are. You see, it is sticking in your mind." He smiled wickedly.
"You fight too hard," she pleaded.
"I'm sorry," he said remorsefully. "I shall not do it again."
"Oh, I'm not a bit hurt," she protested. "I was only thinking the point over."
"I want to hear what you were thinking." His smile and tone were meaningly affectionate, as if they would add "little child."