"Permit me to inform you," I said, "that I have not (as you appear to suppose) left the room."
She took no notice. She went on with her commands, rising irrepressibly from one amatory climax to another.
"Give me a kiss!"
Unhappy Oscar—sacrificed between us—blushed. Stop! Don't revel prematurely in the greatest enjoyment a reader has—namely, catching a writer out in a mistake. I have not forgotten that his disfigured complexion would prevent his blush from showing on the surface. I beg to say I saw it under the surface—saw it in his expression: I repeat—he blushed.
I felt it necessary to assert myself for the second time.
"I have only one object in remaining in the room, Miss Finch. I merely wish to know whether you refuse to accept my excuses.
"Oscar! give me a kiss!"
He still hesitated. She threw her arm round his neck. My duty to myself was plain—my duty was to go.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Dubourg," I said—and turned to the door. She heard me cross the room, and called to me to stop. I paused. There was a glass on the wall opposite to me. On the authority of the glass, I beg to mention that I paused in my most becoming manner. Grace tempered with dignity: dignity tempered with grace.
"Madame Pratolungo!"