"I will give it back some day," he replied, thrusting the bit of
cambric into his blouse.
"Now, Monsieur; at once!" she commanded.
"There was a time when I obeyed you in all things. This handkerchief
will do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion to
write. Do you remember that line, 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a
thousand times?' That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on my
word of honor, had I it now . . ."
"Monsieur du Cévennes," she said, "I will this day write an answer to
your annoying proposal. I trust that you will be gentleman enough to
accept it as final. I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and my
words do justice neither to you nor to me. Yes, I had a purpose, a
woman's purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it."
"Your purpose, Madame, is nothing; mine is everything." He bowed and
departed, the heron feather in his hat showing boldly.
It was almost a complete victory, for he had taken with him her woman's
prerogative, the final word. He strode resolutely along, never once
turning his head . . . not having the courage. But, had he turned,
certain it is that he must have stopped.
For madame had fallen back upon that one prerogative which man shall
never take from woman . . . tears!
Look back, Monsieur, while there is yet time.