So, gazing down at that bowed head, I felt pity for her rise warm within my heart. She was right. Men were brutes--crushing women by their strength, pulling them down, taking their will of them, then faring gaily on without a thought for the shame and suffering they left behind. So it had always been. At last she looked up at me, and her eyes were very cold. “Was that the act of a gentleman?” she asked. “It was not,” I said, and at my tone I saw her start and look up at me more keenly. No doubt she had expected to hear in my voice a note of triumph. “You are ready, then, to apologize?” she continued, after a moment. “I sincerely beg your pardon, mademoiselle.” “You see I was wrong to trust you--to come here into the garden with you. But I thought you a man of honor!” “I thought myself so,” I said. “And your excuse?” “I was tempted and I fell.” “That has been man’s retort since the days of Adam!” she said with scorn. “A retort which I consider ungenerous and ungentlemanly.” “Well, it has not been without some justification,” I said, my spirits rising, as I saw that here, at least, was a victim capable of self-defense. “But I apologize.” “You promise that the act shall never be repeated?” she asked with great severity. “I promise that freely.” “But will you keep the promise? You see I have a reason to distrust you, M. de Tavernay.” “Yes, I will keep it,” I said. “I have the memory of this night to live on;” and my heart warmed at the thought. “Always I shall have the memory of this night to live on!” She flushed slightly and her eyes softened and wavered, but only for an instant. “And what of your loyalty to your betrothed?” she queried with biting irony. But even that failed to wound me, to pierce the garment of joy in which I was once again enveloped. “It shall never again be broken,” I said. “But nothing she can do will change the past.” “You mean you would not have it changed?” “No!” I cried. “No! It is the dearest thing I have. I am proud of it! I glory in it! I shall keep it always warm against my heart.” “Do you know, I suspect you are something of a poet, M. de Tavernay?” she said, after a moment’s inspection of my face from under half-closed lids. “Oh, no!” I protested. “It is love makes me appear so.” Again she contemplated me for a moment, a puzzling smile playing about her lips. “Come, monsieur,” she said suddenly, “I am going to be generous. Sit down again. You see, I have faith in you. Besides, I wish to keep my friend, if I can. After all, perhaps you _may_ care for me--although, I repeat, it is only for the moment.” “You do not really think so,” I interrupted; “but let it pass.” “Besides, you are very young.” “Not so young as you, mademoiselle.” “Oh, I am immensely older. I am an elder sister who must take you in hand and form you.” “Oh, everybody wishes to form me,” I cried, impatiently. “I have no desire to be formed--I will form myself.”