"Yes, I said it—not yet."
The other yielded with a satisfied smile. His hand strayed to the purse hanging at his side. "What's to pay? Tell me."
The artist shook his head. "I would not sell it—not even to you," he said. His eyes were on the canvas.
"But it's mine!"
"It's yours—for friendship's sake."
The young man nodded contentedly. Then a thought struck across his face. "You'll tell Agnes that?" he said quickly.
"Ay, I'll tell Agnes—that it's yours. But not what you paid for it," added the painter thoughtfully.
"No, no, don't tell her that." The young man spoke quickly. His tone was half jesting, half earnest. He stood looking at the two faces, glancing from one to the other with a look of baffled resentment. "A living shame!" he muttered under his breath.
The artist looked up quickly. "What?"
"Nothing." The young man moved vaguely about the room. "I wish to God, Dürer, you had a free hand!" he broke out.