"No, you have not gone too far," he said. "I've disgraced myself and deserve no mercy."
"You are mistaken; the trout may have come from your side of the wall——"
"It did, but that is a miserable excuse. Nothing can palliate my conduct. It's a curious thing," he added, bitterly, "that a fellow who is decent enough at home immediately begins to do things in Europe."
"What things, monsieur?"
"Ill-bred things; I might as well say it. Theoretically, poaching is romantic; practically, it's a misdemeanor—the old conflict between realism and romance, madame—as typified by a book I am at present reading—a copy of the same book which I notice you are now carrying under your arm."
She glanced at him, curious, irresolute, waiting for him to continue. And as he did not, but stood moodily twirling his cap like a sulky schoolboy, she leaned back against a tree, saying: "You are very severe on romance, monsieur."
"You are very lenient with reality, madame."
"How do you know? I may be far more angry with you than you suspect. Indeed, every time I have seen you on the wall—" she hesitated, paling a trifle. She had made a mistake, unless he was more stupid than she dared hope.
"But until this morning I had done nothing to anger you?" he said, looking up sharply. Her features wore the indifference of perfect repose; his latent alarm subsided. She had made no mistake in his stupidity.