"I declare I don't know what you mean," he said, staring at her. "I did not come in until two in the morning. It was past two."
"But I saw you," she persisted. "It was moonlight, and I saw you cross the lawn from the dining-room window, and go out. I was at this window, and I watched you go in the direction of the gate. It was long past ten."
"Bianca, you were dreaming! I was not near the house."
Again she stamped her foot. "Why you deceive me? Would I say I saw you if I did not?"
Herbert had once seen Bianca Varsini in a passion. He did not care to see her in one again. When he said that he had not come near the house, from the time of his leaving it on rising from dinner, until two in the morning, he had spoken the strict truth. What the Italian girl was driving at, he could not imagine: but he deemed it as well to drop the subject.
"You are a folle, Bianca, as you often call yourself," said he jestingly, taking her hands. "You go into a temper for nothing. I'd get rid of that haste, if I were you."
"It was my mother's temper," she answered, drawing her hands away and letting them fall by her side. "Do you know what she once did! She spit in the face of the Archevêque of Paris!"
"She was a lady!" cried Herbert ironically. "How was that?"
"He offended her. He was passing her in procession at the Fête Dieu, and he said something reproachful to her, and it put her in a temper, and she spit at him! She could do worse than that if she liked! She could have died for those who were kind to her; but let them offend her—je les en fais mes compliments!"
"I say, mademoiselle, who was your mother?"