"But I have been afraid--afraid.

One hears, sometimes, of a woman who is generous enough to love a man who is a nobody--to think only of love.
Sometimes--last voyage, when you used to sit where you are sitting now--I have thought that it might have been my extraordinary good fortune to meet such a woman." He waited for some word or sign, but she sat motionless.
"You understand," he went on, "how contemptible must seem their talk of a heritage in France, when such a thought is in one's mind, even if--" "Yes," she interrupted, hastily.

"You were quite wrong.

You were mistaken." "Mistaking in thinking you--" "Yes," she interrupted again.

"You are quite mistaken, and I am very sorry, of course, that it should have happened." She was singularly collected, and spoke in a matter-of-fact voice.
Barebone's eyes gleamed suddenly; for she had aroused--perhaps purposely--a pride which must have accumulated in his blood through countless generations.