"You will pardon my turning the hall into a stable, but circumstances are urgent. François needed orders. I trust the opportunity was of use."
His ironical air chilled her. She saw him resume his seat, take the tankard, look into it, sip a little of the drink, and then lean back in the chair and laugh.
"Nance, ma chère, you have not pledged me yet. Let me pass you a loving cup."
She sat and stared at him helplessly, feeling herself a fool.
"What, you will not drink to me? Supposing we send the cup to Mr. Benham? I will put more liquor in it, for no doubt he is thirsty. Jean, man, Jean. Here."
Jean came in and stood beside Nance's chair. But De Rothan did not look at him. His eyes were fixed upon Nance.
"Jean, I thought I wanted you, but I find I do not. Go and help François with the horses."
The man vanished, and De Rothan sat with one hand holding the handle of the tankard, his eyes still fixed on Nance. She felt humiliated, outwitted, stripped naked before him. It was so palpable that he knew and that the knowledge amused him.
"Nance, you cannot play the part, my child. We are too clever for the sweet Tragedy Queen who tilts little packets of poison into a gentleman's cup. Did that shiny-faced bully of a fencing-master take me for such a fool!"
She had nothing to say to him.