Hitherto she had received them with a circumspection compelling
respect. To-night she was recklessly gay, impudent, almost wanton.
He spoke of it gently to her as they walked home together,
counselling more prudence in the future.
"We are not married yet," she told him, tartly. "Wait until then
before you criticize my conduct."
"I trust that there will be no occasion then," said he.
"You trust? Ah, yes. You are very trusting."
"Climene, I have offended you. I am sorry."
"It is nothing," said she. "You are what you are." Still was he not
concerned. He perceived the source of her ill-humour; understood,
whilst deploring it; and, because he understood, forgave. He
perceived also that her ill-humour was shared by her father, and by
this he was frankly amused. Towards M. Binet a tolerant contempt
was the only feeling that complete acquaintance could beget. As for
the rest of the company, they were disposed to be very kindly towards
Scaramouche. It was almost as if in reality he had fallen from the
high estate to which their own imaginations had raised him; or
possibly it was because they saw the effect which that fall from his
temporary and fictitious elevation had produced upon Climene.
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