"No, let me finish," she went on. "I have only myself to blame for it.
I was warned against you before I ever saw you; and, so, I tried to
play your own game from the start." (I hope I had the grace to blush;
I think I had.) "But the other night, somehow, the game got too fast
for me--and I--well, I bungled. But whether you believe me or not,
Major Dalberg, I want to say, as a solace to myself, at least, that you
are the only man who ever kissed my face."
I have smelled considerable powder in active service, and I think I may
say I have a fair amount of courage, but it had all oozed away before
the grieving tones and melting eyes of beauty in distress; and in
another moment I should have cut and run like the rankest coward. For,
what would you? A handsome woman (none I had ever seen, not even the
Princess, surpassed her) almost in tears beside you--and all because of
your own clumsy tongue and heavy sense.
I opened my mouth to speak; but the words did not come. In truth, my
brain would not act. I was vacant of ideas. And so she waited; while
our horses walked with heads together, friendly as old stable chums.
Then I found my tongue.
"My dear Lady Helen," I said, "I owe you an apology for what I did that
night."
"You owe me nothing," she broke in. "You know perfectly well that when
a woman is kissed in that way she has only herself to blame."
"But it takes two to make a bargain," I insisted; "and it was I who did
it."
"Tell me," she demanded, "tell me honestly; you didn't imagine I would
be angry?--you felt perfectly easy about it at the time?"