Part 12 (1/2)
”What have you got to say, now that you've got me here?” he asked, putting down his music and looking at her.
”You banders.n.a.t.c.h!” Camelia still held his arm. ”I am sure you look like a banders.n.a.t.c.h; a biting, snarling creature. You have a truly _s.n.a.t.c.hing_ way of speaking.”
”What have you got to say, Camelia?” Perior repeated, withdrawing his arm from the circling clasp upon it.
”I have got to say that you must stay to lunch.”
”Well, I can't do that.”
”Then you may sit down and talk to me a little--scold me if you like; do you feel like scolding me?”
”I have never scolded you, Camelia,” said Perior, knowing that before her lightness his solemnity showed to disadvantage; but he would be nothing but solemn, ludicrously solemn if necessary.
”You were never sure I deserved it, then,” said Camelia, stooping to gather up her dog for a swift kiss, and laughing over his round head at Perior's stiffness; ”else you would have done your duty, I am sure--you never forget your duty.”
”Thanks; your recognition is flattering.”
”There, my pet, go--poor Sir Arthur is lonely, go to him,” said Camelia, opening the window for Siegfried's exit, ”you know your sarcasm doesn't impress me one bit--not one bit,” she added.
”I don't fancy that anything I could say would impress you,” Perior replied, eyeing her little manoeuvres, ”and since I have seen Siegfried receive his kiss, I really must go,” and at this Perior took up his music with decision; to see him a.s.suming indifference so badly was delightful to Camelia.
”_Why_ were you so rude to poor Lady Henge the other evening?” she demanded, couching her lance and preparing for the shock of encounter; ”you were hideously rude, you know.”
”Yes, I know.” Perior still eyed her, his departure effectually checked.
”Then, why were you?”
”Because you lied.”
”Oh, what an ugly word!” cried Camelia lightly, though with a little chill, for the unpleasant sincerity of Perior's look she felt to be more than she had bargained for. ”What a big, ungainly word to fling at poor little me! You should eschew such gross elementary forms of speech, Alceste; really, they are not becoming.”
”I hate lies,” said Perior tersely, thinking, as he spoke, that by the logic of the words he should hate Camelia too--for what was she but unmitigated falseness personified? He had lost his nervousness, now that the moment for plain speaking had arrived.
”And you call _that_ a lie?”
”I call it a lie.” She considered him gravely.
”I tried to give pleasure, you tried to give pain.”
”I tried to restore the balance.”
”I cannot think it wrong to slight the truth a little--from mere kindness.”
”And I think it wrong to lie. And,” Perior added, his voice taking on an added depth of indignant scorn, ”you lied to Arthur; I saw you.”
”You saw!” Camelia could not repress a little gasp.
”I saw that he caught your humorous and hospitable comments on his mother's performance, and I saw your cajolery afterwards. I am sure I can't imagine how you hoodwinked him. It was neatly done, Camelia.”
Camelia felt herself growing pale, losing the victor's smiling calm.
Here he was brutally voicing the very scruples she had laid to rest after moments of most generous self-doubt--atoning moments, as she felt.