"I am in love." "You are in love with him--with that interloper! Heaven of heavens, do you speak the truth?
Answer me, Zoe Barbille." She bridled.

"Certainly I will answer.

Did you think I would let a man look at me as he did, that I would look at a man as I looked at him, that I would let him hold my hand as I did, if I did not love him?
Have you ever seen me do it before ?" Her voice was even and quiet--as though she had made up her mind on a course, and meant to carry it through to the end.
"No, I never saw you look at a man like that, and everything is as you say, but--" his voice suddenly became uneven and higher--pitched and a little hoarse, "but he is English, he is an actor--only that; and he is a Protestant." "Only that ?" she asked, for the tone of his voice was such as one would use in speaking of a toad or vermin, and she could not bear it.

"Is it a disgrace to be any one of those things ?" "The Barbilles have been here for two hundred years; they have been French Catholics since the time of"-- he was not quite sure--"since the time of Louis XI.," he added at a venture, and then paused, overcome by his own rashness.
"Yes, that is a long time," she said, "but what difference does it make?
We are just what we are now, and as if there never had been a Baron of Beaugard.

What is there against Gerard except that he is an actor, that he is English, and that he is a Protestant?
Is there anything ?" "Sacre, is it not enough?
An actor, what is that--to pretend to be someone else and not to be yourself!" "It would be better for a great many people to be someone else rather than themselves--for nothing; and he does it for money." "For money! What money has he got?
You don't know.