The artist glanced inquiry. He held up his hand, moving the supple fingers with a little gesture of pride. "Isn't it?" he demanded, smiling.
The young man shook his head. His round face retained its look of dissent. "Marriage—for a man like you! Two hundred florins—for dowry!" He laughed scornfully.
His companion's face flushed. A swift look came into the eyes.
The other held out a deprecating hand. "I didn't mean it," he said. "Don't be angry."
The flush faded. The artist turned to the easel, taking up a brush, as if to seek in work a vent for his disturbed thought.
"You'll spoil it!" said Pirkheimer quickly.
"I shall finish it," replied Dürer, without looking up.
The other moved restlessly about. "Well ... I must go. Good-by, Dürer." He came and stood by the easel, holding out his hand.
The artist rose, the warm smile on his lips bathing his face. "Good-by, my friend." He held out his hand frankly.
Pirkheimer caught it in his. "We're friends?" he said.