To his amazement, her mood had entirely changed. Whether his action had served as proof of his declared sincerity, or whether her brief reflection on his words had itself served him this good turn, he could not guess; but he saw now that her eyes had softened and that her underlip quivered.
“Good afternoon,” said Cartaret.
“Good-by,” said she.
She moved toward the door, then stopped.
“I hope that you will pardon me,” she said, and she spoke as if she were not accustomed to asking pardon. “I have been too quick and very foolish. You must know that I am new to Paris—new to France—new to cities—and that I have heard strange stories of Parisians and of the men of the large towns.”
Cartaret was more than mollified, but he took a grip upon his emotions and resolved to pursue this advantage.
“At least,” he said, “you should have seen that I was your own sort.”
“My own—my own sort?” She did not seem to comprehend.
“Well, of your own class, then.” This girl had an impish faculty for making him say things that sounded priggish: “You should have seen I was of your own class.”
Again her eyes widened. Then she tossed her head and laughed a little silvery laugh.