The conceit in man always rises and struts at the approach of a woman's sympathy. My body ached, the knife slash across my ribs burnt, and I felt myself a sadly abused person as Rosalind addressed me.
"I understand all about you, Mr. Donovan."
My plumage fell; I did not want to be understood, I told myself; but I said:
"Please go on."
"I can tell you exactly why it is that Helen has taken so strong hold of your imagination,—why, in fact, you are in love with her."
"Not that—not that."
She snatched the foil from the table and cut the air with it several times as I started toward her. Then she stamped her foot and saluted me.
"Stand where you are, sir! Your race, Mr. Donovan, has a bad reputation in matters of the heart. For a moment you thought you were in love with me; but you are not, and you are not going to be. You see, I understand you perfectly."
"That's what my sisters used to tell me."
"Precisely! And I'm another one of your sisters—you must have scores of them!—and I expect you to be increasingly proud of me."