"Only one? Impossible," said my father.

"Yes, only one, and it seemed simple enough."

A touch of color had mounted to her cheeks, and she looked down at the
bare table.

"You have done your best, done your best in a hundred little ways to make
me hate you. You have studied the matter carefully, as you study
everything. You have missed few opportunities. Even a minute ago, about
the Marquis--and yet you have not succeeded."

My father raised his hand hastily to his coat lapel.

"Is there never a woman who will not reduce matters to personalities," he
murmured. "I should have known better. I see it now. I should have made
love to you."

Though her voice was grave, there was laughter in her eyes.

"I have often wondered why you did not. It was the only method you seem
to have overlooked."

"There is one mistake a man always makes about women." He smiled and
glanced at us both, and then back at his wine again. "He forgets they are
all alike. Sooner or later he sees one that in some strange way seems
different. I thought you were different, Mademoiselle. Heaven forgive me,
I thought you even rational. Surely you have every reason to dislike me.
Let us be serious, Mademoiselle. You do not hate me?"