Yet when she came forth again at the end of some five minutes, she found him still lingering at the door.
“Not gone yet?” she asked him, superciliously.
“I was waiting for you, mademoiselle. You will be walking to the inn. If I might escort you...”
“But what gallantry! What condescension!”
“Perhaps you would prefer that I did not?”
“How could I prefer that, M. Scaramouche? Besides, we are both going the same way, and the streets are common to all. It is that I am overwhelmed by the unusual honour.”
He looked into her piquant little face, and noted how obscured it was by its cloud of dignity. He laughed.
“Perhaps I feared that the honour was not sought.”
“Ah, now I understand,” she cried. “It is for me to seek these honours. I am to woo a man before he will pay me the homage of civility. It must be so, since you, who clearly know everything, have said so. It remains for me to beg your pardon for my ignorance.”
“It amuses you to be cruel,” said Scaramouche. “No matter. Shall we walk?”