As Le Breton entered she rose, scanning him quickly. She had never seen him so proud and aloof-looking, his face so set and hard. But there was a look of suppressed suffering in his eyes that cut her to the quick.
Neither said a word until the door closed behind the steward.
Then Le Breton crossed to the girl's side.
"What nonsense is this?" he asked in a cold, angry voice, holding her note towards her. "You promised to marry me, and you must carry out your promise. I'm not going to be put lightly to one side in this manner."
"I haven't put you lightly to one side," she answered. "I think I explained exactly how things were in my note."
"Explanations! I'm not here for explanations," he said, with cold impatience; "but to insist that you fulfill your promise."
"I couldn't do that," she replied quietly.
With the air of still moving in the midst of some incredible truth, he stared at her.
"You've been flirting with me," he said presently, a note of savagery and scorn in his voice. "You are a true English demievierge. You rouse a man without the least intention of satisfying him."
Pansy flushed under his contempt. She hated being called "a flirt"; she was not one. She did not know why she had acted as she had done the previous night. But once in his arms, she had wanted to stay. And once he had started talking of love, she wanted to listen. With him she had forgotten all about her own scheme of life and her cherished liberty.