"Who would have guessed that you would insult me? Is it your habit to
insult women?"

"Not mine only, it seems," said I, meeting her glance boldly.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Had you, then, an invitation from Mme. de Saint-Maclou?"

She drew back as if I had struck her. And I felt as though I had struck
her. She looked at me for a moment with parted lips; then, without a word
or a sign, she turned and walked slowly away in the direction of the
hotel.

And I, glad to have something else to occupy my thoughts, started at a
brisk pace along the foot-path that runs down the hill and meets the road
which would lead me to the convent, for I had a thing or two to say to the
duchess. And yet it was not of the duchess only that I thought as I went.
There were also in my mind the indignant pride with which Marie Delhasse
had questioned me, and the shrinking shame in her eyes at that
counter-question of mine. The Duke of Saint-Maclou's invitation seemed to
bring as much disquiet to one of his guests as it had to his wife herself.
But one thing struck me, and I found a sort of comfort in it: she had
thought, it seemed, that the duchess was to be at home.

"Pah!" I cried suddenly to myself. "If she weren't pretty, you'd say that
made it worse!"

And I went on in a bad temper.