"Confess that you feel for me as sovereign a contempt as the ladies of the last century felt for a man that never got drunk."
"I feel," she says, averting her head and speaking under an impulse that kindles her cheeks and makes her voice falter—"I feel a surprise that the words you say and the words you are reported to say do not tally better together."
"What am I reported to say?" (a little impatiently.) "A réchauffé of one's own stale speeches is not an appetising dish, but may be wholesome as an exhortation to consistency."
"A person—I was told—" begins Esther, floundering in confusion among different forms of speech—"I was told—by a person that ought to have known—that you had spoken in a slighting, disparaging way of—of—of—a person."
"Who told you so?" (breathlessly.)
"That can be of no consequence."
"Without your telling me I know," he says, his face growing hot with the red of indignant anger, not guilt. "God forgive her for such a lie!"
"It was not true, then?" she asks, eagerly, lifting her eyes, brimful of joyful relief, to his.
"Such an accusation is not worth rebutting," he answers, contemptuously. "Is a man likely to speak slightingly of——" He stops abruptly. ("Not yet! not yet! it is impossible that she can like me yet. Am I an Antinous, to be loved as soon as seen? Let me be patient—be patient!")