“I should judge you wise in most things,” he answered slowly, critically. “But in the matter to which I owe the blessing of having served you, I do not think you wise. Did you—do you love Lord Rotherby?”
“What if so?”
“After what you have learned, I should account you still less wise.”
“You are impertinent, sir,” she reproved him.
“Nay, most pertinent. Did you not ask me to sit in judgment upon this matter? And unless you confess to me, how am I to absolve you?”
“I did not crave your absolution. You take too much upon yourself.”
“So said Lord Rotherby. You seem to have something in common when all is said.”
She bit her lip in chagrin. They paced in silence to the lawn's end, and turned again. Then: “You treat me like a fool,” she reproved him.
“How is that possible, when, already I think I love you.”
She started from him, and stared at him for a long moment. “You insult me!” she cried angrily, conceiving that she understood his mind. “Do you think that because I may have committed a folly I have forfeited all claim to be respected—that I am a subject for insolent speeches?”