They make a mock of me, and I will never forgive you." "But Juliette, I----" he began, and got no further, for she turned and ran away.

Anxious to explain, he ran after her, pursued by the loud hilarity of the intruding pair.

In vain, for Juliette was singularly swift of foot, and he might as well have pursued Atalanta.
She reached the Maison Blanche, which fortunately was empty, a clear ten yards ahead of him, and shut herself in her room, whence, declaring that she had a headache, she did not emerge till the following morning.
Godfrey departed to the observatory where he often worked in summer, feeling very sore and full of reflections.

He had not really meant to kiss Juliette, at least he thought not, and it was unthinkable that she meant to kiss him, since, so far as he was aware, no young woman ever wanted to do such a thing, being, every one of them, doubtless, as unapproachable and frigid as the topmost, snowy peak of the Alps.

(Such was, and always remained his attitude, where the other sex was concerned, one not without inconvenience in a practical world of disillusions.) No, it was that confounded flower which brought about this pure accident--as though Nature, which designs such accidents, had not always a flower, or something equally serviceable, up her sleeve.
Moreover, had it not been for that accursed pair, sent, doubtless, to spy on him by Madame Riennes, the accident would never have mattered; at least not much.