"Indeed?" said my father. "And you still are sorry. Mademoiselle, you
disappoint me."

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I heard the story, and I believe she was to
blame, not you. After all, she took you for better or worse."

And then a strange thing happened. In spite of himself he started. His
race flushed, and his lips pressed tight together. It seemed almost as
though a spasm of pain had seized him, which he could not conceal in
spite of his best efforts. With an unconscious motion, he grasped his
wine glass and the color ebbed from his cheeks.

"Mademoiselle is mistaken," said my father. "Another wine glass, Brutus."
The stem of the one he was holding had snapped in his hand.

"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle shortly.

My father cleared his throat, and glanced restlessly away, his face still
set and still lined with the trace of suffering.

"Mademoiselle," he said finally, "you deal with a subject which is still
painful. Pray excuse me if I do not discuss it. Anything which you may
have heard of my affairs is entirely a fault of mine. You understand?"

"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I understand, and we shall continue to
discuss it, no matter how painful it is to you. Who knows, captain;
perhaps I can bring you to your senses, or are you going to continue to
ruin your life on account of a woman?"