“I see,” he said, and pulled at his pipe. “But you are wrong, Climene. I have practised no deception. If there are things about me that I have not told you, it is that I did not account them of much importance. But I have never deceived you by pretending to be other than I am. I am neither more nor less than I have represented myself.”
This persistence began to annoy her, and the annoyance showed on her winsome face, coloured her voice.
“Ha! And that fine lady of the nobility with whom you are so intimate, who carried you off in her cabriolet with so little ceremony towards myself? What is she to you?”
“A sort of sister,” said he.
“A sort of sister!” She was indignant. “Harlequin foretold that you would say so; but he was amusing himself. It was not very funny. It is less funny still from you. She has a name, I suppose, this sort of sister?”
“Certainly she has a name. She is Mlle. Aline de Kercadiou, the niece of Quintin de Kercadiou, Lord of Gavrillac.”
“Oho! That’s a sufficiently fine name for your sort of sister. What sort of sister, my friend?”
For the first time in their relationship he observed and deplored the taint of vulgarity, of shrewishness, in her manner.
“It would have been more accurate in me to have said a sort of reputed left-handed cousin.”
“A reputed left-handed cousin! And what sort of relationship may that be? Faith, you dazzle me with your lucidity.”