"I humbly beg your pardon," he said quietly, "And must crave your kind indulgence for my mood: but I have been so anxious ..." "Why should you be anxious about me?" She had meant to say this indifferently, as if caring little what the reply might be: but in her effort to seem indifferent her voice became haughty, a reminiscence of the days when she still was the daughter of the Duc de Marny, the richest and most high-born heiress in France. "Was that presumptuous?" he asked, with a slight touch of irony, in response to her own hauteur. "It was merely unnecessary," she replied. "I have already laid too many burdens on your shoulders, without wishing to add that of anxiety." "You have laid no burden on me," he said quietly, "save one of gratitude." "Gratitude? What have I done?" "You committed a foolish, thoughtless act outside my door, and gave me the chance of easing my conscience of a heavy load." "In what way?" "I had never hoped that the Fates would be so kind as to allow me to render a member of your family a slight service." "I understand that you saved my life the other day, Monsieur Déroulède. I know that I am still in peril and that I owe my safety to you ..." "Do you also know that your brother owed his death to me?" She closed her lips firmly, unable to reply, wrathful with him, for having suddenly and without any warning, placed a clumsy hand upon that hidden sore. "I always meant to tell you," he continued somewhat hurriedly; "for it almost seemed to me that I have been cheating you, these last few days. I don't suppose that you can quite realise what it means to me to tell you this just now; but I owe it to you, I think. In later years you might find out, and then regret the days you spent under my roof. I called you childish a moment ago, you must forgive me; I know that you are a woman, and hope therefore that you will understand me. I killed your brother in fair fight. He provoked me as no man was ever provoked before ..." "Is it necessary, M. Déroulède, that you should tell me all this?" she interrupted him with some impatience. "I thought you ought to know." "You must know, on the other hand, that I have no means of hearing the history of the quarrel from my brother's point of view now." The moment the words were out of her lips she had realised how cruelly she had spoken. He did not reply; he was too chivalrous, too gentle, to reproach her. Perhaps he understood for the first time how bitterly she had felt her brother's death, and how deeply she must be suffering, now that she knew herself to be face to face with his murderer. She stole a quick glance at him, through her tears. She was deeply penitent for what she had said. It almost seemed to her as if a dual nature was at war within her.