“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.” “Now she’s going to flare up again,” he thought, as his companion turned and glared at him, but the anger faded out of her eyes as he looked at her in calm expectancy. “It is a just rebuke,” she said, in a low voice. “I will tell you, although I do not care to speak of myself, but it will be a good punishment for me, as you say. My godmother, with whom I have always lived until lately, used to encourage me to self-denial when I was a child, saying that one could never rise to the height of a great renunciation unless one trained oneself for it by means of constant smaller ones. As I grew older, the principle seemed to me so excellent that I have followed it in other things.--When you were little, did you never hold your hand in the flame of the candle to try and find out whether you could be a martyr?” “No,” said Caerleon; “I have often done it, but I am afraid it was because I was told not to.” “Well, I have done it--often. And so with other things. I discovered in myself a strong tendency to insincerity, and fearing to yield to it, I made it a duty never to let politeness or the desire to please keep me from saying what I thought. How dreadful it would be to fail in truthfulness at some great crisis on account of a long course of petty hypocrisies! But I found that this made me appear rude, and I am very proud, and did not like to confess myself in the wrong. So here was another opportunity for self-discipline, and I resolved to let nothing prevent me from instantly asking pardon of any one I had offended in this way.” “I see--without regard to that person’s feelings. And may I ask whether Madame--your godmother--pursues the same system?”