"I know that you are too proud," she said, "to ask any pardon for the attack you made on me just now. So I wish to tell you that I have already forgiven it."
"That is truly generous," said L'Isle, with haughty irony. "You prove the adage false which says, 'The injurer never forgives.'"
"Say you so? I see then that you have gone back years to dig up old offences. Although I remember, to repent of them, I trusted that you would have willingly forgiven and forgot my folly, or only recall it to laugh at it. I know now," she said, stealing a look at him, "that you are of an unforgetting, unforgiving temper." Then looking away, she added, "I thought better of you once."
"There are some things," answered L'Isle, but in a softened tone, "not to be forgotten, nor easily forgiven."
"I assure you," said Lady Mabel, with the air of a penitent, "I have been terribly ashamed of myself ever since. Had I known that you still viewed my thoughtless conduct as a serious wrong to you, I would willingly have made you any apology, any reparation."
"Apologies would hardly reach the evil," said L'Isle. "But any reparation! That is a broad term."
"Any, I mean, that you ought to ask, or I to make."
"There would be no absolute impropriety in my asking a good deal," said L'Isle, in tones that reminded Lady Mabel of some witching moments in Elvas, "I will not make the blunder of asking too little," he added resolutely. "Let me first ask when you will be at home to-morrow—at three?"
"Certainly at three; more certainly at two," she answered in a low tone.
"And most certainly at one," said he joyously. "I like your superlative degree of comparison."