"My Brother is hasty, Sir," she said more gently. "He has many prejudices which, no doubt, time and experience of life will mend. As for me," she added lightly, "I am quite ready to extend the hand of Friendship, not only to the Artist but to the Man."
She held out her hand to him. Then, as he did not take it, but stood there looking at her with that hungry, passionate look which revealed the depth of his Admiration for her, she continued with a bantering tone of reproach:
"You will not take my hand, Sir?"
"No," he replied curtly.
"But I am offering You my Friendship," she went on, with a quick, nervy little laugh; for she was Woman enough, believe me, to understand his look.
"Friendship between Man and Woman is impossible," he said in a strange, hoarse voice, which I scarce recognized as his.
"What do you mean?" she retorted, with a sudden stiffening of her Figure and a haughty Glance which he, of a truth, should have known boded no good for his suit.
"I mean," he replied, "that between a Man and a Woman, who are both young and both endowed with Heart and Soul and Temperament, there may be Enmity or Love, Hatred or Passion; but Friendship, never."
"You talk vaguely, Sir," she rejoined coldly. "I pray You, give me my cloak."
"Not," he retorted, "before I have caused your Ladyship to cast one short Glance back over the past few months."