He looked at her sharply from under his sooted brows.

Was she, after all, he wondered, no different from other women?
Was she cold and calculating, and had she as little heart as he had come to believe was usual with her sex, that she could contemplate so calmly the possibility of her lover being dead?
He had thought her better, more natural, more large-hearted and more pure.

That had encouraged him to stand by her in these straits of hers, no matter at what loss of dignity to himself.

It began to seem that his conclusions had been wrong.
His silence caused her to look up, and in his face she read something of what was passing in his thoughts.

She smiled rather wanly.
"You are thinking me heartless, Monsieur de Garnache ?" "I am thinking you--womanly." "The same thing, then, to your mind.