“You were very unjust to me, Lady Davenant, yesterday, and unkind.”
“Unkind is a woman’s word; but go on.”
“Surely man may mark ‘unkindness’ altered eye’ as well as woman,” said Beauclerc; “and from a woman and a friend he may and must feel it, or he is more or less than man.”
“Now what can you have to say, Granville, that will not be anticlimax to this exordium?”
“I will say no more if you talk of exordiums and anti-climaxes,” cried he. “You accused me yesterday of affectation—twice, when I was no more affected than you are.”
“Oh! is that my crime? Is that, what has hurt you so dreadfully? Here is the thorn that has gone in so deep! I am afraid that, as is usual, the accusation hurt the more because it was——”
“Do not say ‘true,’” interrupted Beauclerc, “for you really cannot believe it, Lady Davenant. You know me, and all my faults, and I have plenty; but you need not accuse me of one that I have not, and which from the bottom of my soul I despise. Whatever are my faults, they are at least real, and my own.”
“You may allow him that,” said Helen.
“Well I will—I do,” said Lady Davenant; “to appease you, poor injured innocence; though anyone in the world might think you affected at this moment. Yet I, who know you, know that it is pure real folly. Yes, yes, I acquit you of affectation.”
Beauclerc’s face instantly cleared up.