“Gifts!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, certainly,” I answered. “What are his fables, his imagery, his storied eloquence but the highest gifts a genius can bestow on his fellows? They are as much his exclusive property as diamonds would be, and in accepting them you laid yourself under as great an obligation as if you had accepted a costly necklace from him.”
She laughed a little; then looked grave.
“I think, do you know, Felix,” she said, “that you are rather stupid.”
“Very likely I am,” I answered; “but why?”
“Not to see,” she began—and stopped. Then suddenly she went on: “I thought anyhow I was considering you in adopting this attitude.”
“In that case,” I said, “please to consider me a gentleman.”
“And the moral of that is,” she said, “that my treatment of M. Cabarus proves me to be not a lady.”
“I never dreamt of implying such a thing, or of thinking it.”
“Well, anyhow I am not a lady in the sense that you are a gentleman. I accept presents from strangers and then snub them. Very well. I cannot return M. Cabarus his magnificent gifts, but I can at least return him what he, I am sure, thinks much more important—his magnificent attentions. You shall see.”