The atmosphere smelled like that of a pot-house, the odours
"Cruel! It is that she will not understan'! Have I speak of the ladies of France? No, no, no! It is of the faires' country; yes, 'tis a province of heaven, mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my allegiance to France? Oh, yes! I am subjec' - no, content to be slave - in the lan' of the blue sky, the gold, and the snow.
"A very pretty figure," answered Lady Mary, her eyes downcast. "But does it not hint a notable experience in the making of such speeches?"
"Tormentress! No. It prove only the inspiration it is to know you."
"We English ladies hear plenty of the like sir; and we even grow brilliant enough to detect the assurance that lies beneath the courtesies of our own gallants."
"Merci! I should believe so!" ejaculated M. de Chateaurien: but he smothered the words upon his lips.
Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We come, in time, to believe that true feeling comes faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness betokens the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true - your true - " She was herself faltering; more, blushing deeply, and halting to a full stop in terror of a word. There was a silence.
"Your - true - lover," he said huskily. When he had said that word both trembled. She turned half away into the darkness of the coach.
"I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, faltering himself, though it was not his art that prompted him. "They have tol' you the French do nothing al - ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, you think I am like that. You think I am like that now!"