"I teach to learn. I teach only those from whom I get more than I give. You see," with his engaging boyish smile, "I have the mercantile instinct."
She looked at him doubtfully, searching for the motive behind an offer, so curious, so improbable in and of itself. She saw before her now the outward and visible form of the genius she revered—a very handsome man, a man whose knowledge how to make himself agreeable to women must obviously have been got by much and intimate experience; a man whose sensuous eyes and obstreperous masculinity of thick waving hair and thick crisp reddish beard, roused in her the distrust bred by ages on ages of enforced female wariness of the male that is ever on conquest bent and is never so completely conqueror as when conquered. But this primordial instinct, never developed in her by experience, was feeble, was immediately silenced by the aspect of him which she clearly understood—his look of breadth and luminousness and simplicity, the master's eye and the master's air—the great man.
"You will teach me more than I you," he insisted.
"Why?" she managed to object, wondering at her own courage as much as at his condescension—for such an offer from such a man was, she felt, indeed a condescension.
"Because you paint with your heart while I paint rather with my head."
"But that is the greater."
"No. It is simply different. Neither is great."
"Neither?"
"Only he is supremely great who works with both heart and mind."
She showed how well she understood, by saying, "Leonardo, for example?"