Hasn't he. She supposes he hasn't, at that; she wonders if he would have, if she'd ever asked, or if he'd have told her, or if he'd have got offended at being asked and left. He's a prickly thing, this friend of hers. An observation beautifully borne out by this conversation-- but so is she, sometimes, and the same again.

Benevenuta, the liar, sidesteps his last petty remark entirely. She lies to everybody. Why should Lucius be special?

“Incongruous but not contradictory,” she offers, instead, bringing the saucepan over the heat and glancing up at him over her shoulder. “Neither my manners nor my skills, I think, suffer for these things. I would think experience to be a valuable thing.”