"That I smoked!"
He hesitated a second.
"I will try!"
"You see!"—went on Maryllia, coaxingly—"we shall have to live in the same parish, and we shall be compelled to meet each other often- -and it would never do for you to be always thinking of that cigarette! Now would it?"
He was silent. The little hand on his arm gave an insistent pressure.
"Of course when you conjure up such an awful picture as Psyche smoking, I know just how you feel about it!" And her eyes sparkled up at him with an arch look which, fortunately for his peace of mind, his own eyes did not meet,—"And naturally you must hold very strong opinions on the subject,—dreadfully strong! But then—nobody has ever thought me at all like Psyche before—so you so—you see!— " She paused, and John began to feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast. "It's very nice to be compared to Psyche anyhow!—and of course she would look impossible and awful with a cigarette in her mouth! I quite understand! She couldn't smoke,—she wouldn't!—and— and—I won't! I won't really! You won't believe me, I expect,—but I assure you, I never smoke! I only did it this evening, because,— because,—well!—because I thought I ought to defend my own sex against your censure—and also perhaps—perhaps out of a little bit of bravado! But, I'm sorry! There! Will you forgive me?"
Nearly, very nearly, John lost his head. Maryllia had used the strongest weapon in all woman's armoury,—humility,—and he went down before it, completely overwhelmed and conquered. A swirl of emotion swept over him,—his brain grew dizzy, and for a moment he saw nothing in earth or heaven but the sweet upturned face, the soft caressing eyes, the graceful yielding form clad in its diaphanous draperies of jewelled gossamer,—then pulling himself together with a strong effort which made him well-nigh tremble, he took the small hand that lay in white confidence on his arm, and raised it to his lips with a grave, courtly, almost cold reverence.
"It is you to forgive ME, Miss Vancourt!"—he said, unsteadily. "For I am quite aware that I committed a breach of social etiquette at your table,—and—and—I know I have taken considerable liberty in speaking my mind to you as I have done. Even as your minister I fear I have overstepped my privileges—-"
"Oh, please don't apologise!" said Maryllia, quickly—"It's all over, you know! You've said your say, and I've said mine—and I'm sure we both feel better for it. Don't we?"
John smiled, but his face was very pale, and his eyes were troubled. He was absorbed in the problem of his own struggling emotions—how to master them—how to keep them back from breaking into passionate speech,—and her bewitching, childlike air, half penitent, half mischievous, was making sad havoc of his self-possession.