"Easily," she murmured. "I scarcely wished to see you to-day. I almost dreaded to hear you had been elected, for I thought you would be angry because we—because Claudine, and my aunt, and I, talked against Mr. Greening, and drove him out, and suggested you. I know men don't like to be helped by women."
"Your efforts counted," he said, patiently, and yet with desperate haste, for they were rapidly nearing the inn, "yet you know Sleeping Water is a small district, and the county is large. There was in some places great dissatisfaction with Mr. Greening, but don't talk of him. My dear one, will you—"
"You don't know the worst thing about me," she interrupted, in a low voice. "There was one dreadful thing I did."
He checked an oncoming flow of endearing words, and stared at her. "You have been flirting," he said at last.
"Worse than that," she said, shamefacedly. "If you say first that you will forgive me, I will tell you about it—no, I will not either. I shall just tell you, and if you don't want to overlook it you need not—why, what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing," he muttered, with an averted face. He had suddenly become as rigid as marble, and Bidiane surveyed him in bewildered surprise, until a sudden illumination broke over her, when she lapsed into nervous amusement.
"You have always been very kind to me, very interested," she said, with the utmost gentleness and sweetness; "surely you are not going to lose patience now."
"Go on," said Agapit, stonily, "tell me about this—this escapade."
"How bad a thing would I have to do for you not to forgive me?" she asked.
"Bidiane—de grâce, continue."