“Do you speak Italian?” she retorted.
“Why do you ask?” he said, coolly. “Are you offended by my inferring a possibility of your not speaking French?”
“No,” she replied; “but I thought it an uncalled-for question. You used an Italian word just now for the same reason, probably, that I used a French one—that we could not find an English word to express our meaning equally well—”
“The only reason,” interrupted Mr Cheviott, eagerly, “that can ever excuse one’s doing so.”
“But,” continued Mary, “you did not give me the credit of this good reason, as I did you. I did not suppose you used an Italian word for the sake of showing off that you knew Italian.”
“And I said nothing to lead you to suppose that I thought you were wanting to show off your French,” retorted Mr Cheviott, laughing a little in spite of himself, and yet manifestly annoyed. “I was only—a little—surprised, perhaps.”
“Why?” asked Mary. “Is it so unusual nowadays to find people who have learned French?”
“Oh dear, no, of course not; but I understood you had been brought up very quietly, and had always lived in the country, and all that sort of thing. I don’t want to offend you, but very probably you would be more offended if I did not answer you plainly.”
“Very probably,” said Mary, smiling. “But don’t you see that just because we have lived so quietly as you say, we have had the more time for ‘lessons’? And there were grave reasons why, in our case, we should learn all we could—practical reasons, I mean.”
Mr Cheviott did not at once reply; he seemed as if reflecting over what she had said.