Charlotte smiled. “It mattered little. I am here for that.”
“A great deal of trouble,” he repeated, detaining her by holding his medicine untasted. “But, as she said, she must be forgiven. Ah! there is nothing so perfect as the assurance of spoiled women!”
That hurt. It drew a contrast. She, Charlotte Ponsonby, was not spoiled, and she had no assurance, and he could not forgive her for it. Pain jarred an injudicious reply from her.
“Why are they spoiled?”
“My dear lady! Why is the earth scattered with the records of man’s folly? Because he feels, and they prey upon his miserable feelings. I am not sure that you are mundane enough to understand.”
“I am not certain that I do understand. But I am certain that my stupidity does not originate in any ultramundane flights.”
“Ah, you’re clever,” said the Judge, “dangerously clever.”
“No woman is dangerously clever till she uses her wits for evil purposes,” she said, flushing. “I resent your choice of adjectives.”
“A thousand pardons,” he cried. “I was thinking of the effect of your cleverness upon yourself, not upon others, and I cannot retract. It is dangerous for any woman’s happiness to analyze herself and all the world as you do.”
She gave a little shrug, and held out her hand for the glass.