It occurred to him that she had doubtless not so very long ago spoken the same words of a man; and he realised that, in spite of her illness, in spite of her repentance, she was ever the same Anna Acquaviva who had once flown from her home and people. He lifted his eyebrows, and his ebony walking-stick beat rather nervously against his chair.
"Would you like a rose?" she asked, to placate him.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't care for flowers."
"What! Not even to wear in your button-hole when you go into society?" she asked, trying to jest.
"They're not de rigueur. Flowers are pretty enough in their way; but I assure you I have never had the weakness to weep over them, or to say that I adore them."
"I was wrong, I said too much."
"You always say too much. You lack a sense of proportion. There are a great many things a girl shouldn't say, lest, if she begins by saying them, she should end by doing them, The woman who says too much is lost."