"Yes--that is, it is partially true. There was nothing heroic about it.
It was a necessary act if our honour as fair opponents was to continue
to be worth anything."

"But who was the man?" she asked, fixing her dark eyes on him
suspiciously.

"The man!" he stammered. "Oh, the man--well, in short----" and he
stopped.

"In short, _George_," she put in, for the first time calling him by his
Christian name, "that man was _you_, and I am so proud of you, George."

It was very hateful to him in a way, for he loathed that kind of
personal adulation, even from her. He was so intensely modest he had
never even reported the incident in question; it had come out in some
roundabout way. Yet he could not but feel happy that she had found him
out. It was a great deal to him to have moved her, and her sparkling
eyes and heaving bosom showed that she was somewhat moved.

He looked up and his eyes caught hers; the room was nearly dark now, but
the bright flame from the wood the servant had put on the fire played
upon her face. His eyes caught hers, and there was a look in them from
which he could not escape, even if he had wished to do so. She had
thrown her head back so that the coronet of her glossy hair rested upon
the back of her low seat, and thus, without strain, could look straight
up into his face. He had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. A
slow, sweet smile grew upon the perfect face, and the dark eyes became
soft and luminous as though they shone through tears.