“Oh no,” said Mdlle. O’Malachy, pointing to the path beside her with an imperious gesture, “I do not wish to insult you. You consider yourself a gentleman. I took you for one.”
She walked on by his side, apparently expecting a retort, but he maintained a resolute silence, although secretly convulsed by the contrast between the intention she expressed and the words which followed it. Suddenly, to his surprise, she turned to him.
“I beg your pardon. I ought not to have said that. I was wrong.”
“Pray don’t apologise,” said Caerleon. “I am here only as your mother’s messenger, and I quite understand that you find my presence disagreeable, and that I can’t expect you to consider my feelings.”
“I do not consider them,” she retorted. “I apologised because it was right to do it when I had been rude.”
“As a punishment to yourself?” asked Caerleon, much amused.
“Certainly not,” she answered. “As a means of self-discipline.”
“I see—and a punishment to me?”
“By no means. Why should I punish you? What you do has no interest for me. Oh, I beg your pardon. That was rude again.”
“Not at all. But I am interested in your self-disciplinary system. Do you mind explaining it a little more fully? I think I ought to hear something about it, you know, since I have to suffer from it.”