Presently the maid brought in tea. She set the tray on a little table, placed a cake-stand within easy reach, paused to make sure she had forgotten nothing, and then asked, "Is there anything more, m'sieur?"
Lionel, who had come to a resolution while waiting, roused himself.
"Yes," he said decisively, "there is. Will you be kind enough Mizzi, to tell me why you surround me with the wet-blanket of your wrath? It is very depressing to a sunny nature."
Mizzi looked at him with a frank pity in her eyes. "It is because I am sorry," she replied.
"That is no explanation," said Lionel briskly, glad to perceive a thaw, however slight. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because you are a fool," observed Mizzi with a gentle pensiveness.
Lionel started; he had not expected this. To be called a fool by a friend of one's own age and sex is an every-day matter that causes no uneasiness. To be called a fool by a withered graybeard need not leave a sting, for there is the comfortable reflection that the graybeard may be repeating a mere formula, and that he, too, enjoyed being a fool in his day. To be called a fool by a youthful enemy is only to be expected, and the epithet betrays a palpable lack of judgment in the user, an epithet that returns like a boomerang upon himself. But to be called a fool by a pretty woman is a distinct ordeal. Lionel was shaken.
He contrived to compass a laugh. It was not an infectious cachinnation, but still it was a laugh. "Will you tell me why I am a fool?" he asked in a moment.
"Certainly," said Mizzi, still in the same gentle tone. "It is because you are the slave of my mistress."
"Excuse me," said Lionel politely, "but I have no wish to discuss her. You may go."