"But you don't like just mere—mere women?" she asked, gravely.
"Are you a mere—mere woman?"
"Yes."
"Then I like them."
The radiance that overflowed her eyes startled him.
"But you aren't just a mere—mere man," she volunteered.
"But I am—a good deal merer, in fact, than many others. I am a shape of clay."
"Then I like shapes of clay," said Mariana.
For an instant they looked at each other in silence. In Mariana's self-conscious eyes there was a soft suffusion of shyness; in his subjective ones there was the quickening of an involuntary interest.
"Then we agree most amicably," he remarked, quietly. As she rose he stood facing her. "It is time for your sleep and my work," he added, and held out his hand.