They set out together, stepping briskly to warm their blood against the wintry evening air. Awhile they went in silence, yet each furtively observing the other.
“And so, you find me cruel?” she challenged him at length, thereby betraying the fact that the accusation had struck home.
He looked at her with a half smile. “Will you deny it?”
“You are the first man that ever accused me of that.”
“I dare not suppose myself the first man to whom you have been cruel. That were an assumption too flattering to myself. I must prefer to think that the others suffered in silence.”
“Mon Dieu! Have you suffered?” She was between seriousness and raillery.
“I place the confession as an offering on the altar of your vanity.”
“I should never have suspected it.”
“How could you? Am I not what your father calls a natural actor? I was an actor long before I became Scaramouche. Therefore I have laughed. I often do when I am hurt. When you were pleased to be disdainful, I acted disdain in my turn.”
“You acted very well,” said she, without reflecting.