"I don't know what's fair to you. And I'm really not very particular about it. Little chance that men ever suffer too much from being misunderstood in this world."
"You are amazingly unjust, do you realize it?"
"I'm not sure that I am," she said sullenly. "You made your début by trying to kiss your own cook. Tino is coarser, he pinches; Ferdie the furtive, pushes one with his knees and rolls wild eyes at one. There are three masculine examples. Take your choice, Monsieur," she added, going.
"Wait!"
She turned haughtily, her gray eyes suddenly insolent.
"Because you are hurt and offended and humiliated by a pair of scoundrels," said I, "is no reason why you should visit your displeasure on me."
"I make no difference in men."
"Not even in the man who is in love with you?"
"Love? Love!" She laughed, not agreeably. "I am not flattered, Monsieur, to have offered to me the same adoration which you were quite willing to bestow upon your cook. I tell you all men are alike!—including the Pharisee."
"Do you mean me?"