Sara, sipping her tea luxuriously, decided in favour of the latter explanation.
"For a confirmed misogynist," she observed later on, when, the feast over, he was repacking the basket, "you have a very complete understanding of a woman's weakness for tea." "It's a case of cause and effect.

A misogynist"-- caustically--"is the product of a very complete understanding of most feminine weaknesses." Sara's slender figure tautened a little.
"Do you think," she said, speaking a little indignantly, "that it is quite nice of you to invite me out to a picnic and then to launch remarks of that description at my head ?" "No, I don't," he acknowledged bluntly.

"It's making you pay some one else's bill." His lean brown hand closed suddenly over hers.

"Forgive me, Sara!" The abrupt intensity of his manner was out of all proportion to the merely surface friction of the moment; and Sara, sensing something deeper and of more significance behind it, hurriedly switched the conversation into a less personal channel.
"Very well," she said lightly, disengaging her hand.

"I'll forgive you, and you shall tell me about Friar Anselmo." She lifted her eyes to the leering, sinister face that protruded from the Devil's Hood.