"But, after all," she exclaimed, "do you really wish to persuade me that Caracciolo is a clever man?"
"Certainly."
"That he has a heart?"
"Certainly," he answered, curtly.
"That he is sympathetic?"
"Certainly," he repeated for the third time.
"Well, well," she said, disconcerted. "I find him arid in mind, hard of heart, and often absurd in his manners. No one will ever convince me of the contrary. He's a doll, not a man. Such a creature a man! It doesn't require much knowledge to see through him!"
"It is quite unnecessary to discuss it, my dear," said Cesare Dias, icily. "We won't discuss it farther. I'm not anxious to convince you, and it doesn't matter. Think what you like of anybody. It's not my affair to correct your fancies. I have unlimited indulgence still at your disposal for your extravagances; but there's one thing I can't tolerate—ingratitude. Do you understand—I hate ingratitude?"
"But what do you mean?" she cried, in anguish.
"Nothing more. Good night."