She sighed, a quick sigh of disappointment.

His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict, and his pride had remained the conqueror.

Perhaps, after all, she had been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred instead of love.

She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer.

He was again as rigid, as impassive, as before.