That smote her hard - so hard that she forgot her assurance that she
would not listen to me - her promise to herself that she would stoop
to no contention with me.

"If, in a momentary weakness, in my nescience of you as you truly
are, I did make some such admission, I did entertain such feelings
for you, things have come to my knowledge since then, monsieur, that
have revealed you to me as another man; I have learnt something that
has utterly withered such love as I then confessed. Now, monsieur,
are you satisfied, and will you let me pass?" She said the last
words with a return of her imperiousness, already angry at having
been drawn so far.

"I am satisfied, mademoiselle," I answered brutally, "that you did
not speak the truth three nights ago. You never loved me. It was
pity that deluded you, shame that urged you - shame at the Delilah
part you had played and at your betrayal of me. Now, mademoiselle,
you may pass," said I.

And I stood aside, assured that as she was a woman she would not
pass me now. Nor did she. She recoiled a step instead. Her lip
quivered. Then she recovered quickly. Her mother might have told
her that she was a fool for engaging herself in such a duel with me
- me, the veteran of a hundred amorous combats. Yet though I doubt
not it was her first assault-at-arms of this description, she was
more than a match for me, as her next words proved.

"Monsieur, I thank you for enlightening me. I cannot, indeed, have
spoken the truth three nights ago. You are right, I do not doubt it
now, and you lift from me a load of shame."