"We English ladies hear plenty of the like sir; and we even grow
brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the
courtesies of our own gallants."

"Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he
smothered the words upon his lips.

Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe
that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness
betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true--your true--"
She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full
stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.

"Your--true--lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both
trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.

"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself, though
it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the French
do nothing always but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think I am like
that. You think I am like that now!"

She made no sign.

"I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I would have the snow not so
col'--for jus' me."

She did not answer.

"Turn to me," he said.