"Forget you?" and he laughed bitterly. "There are many artists, but only one Raphael; there are many women, but only one Daphne. O Daphne! dear, dear Daphne!"—his manner changed at once from the fierceness of scorn to the softness of love, as, dropping on one knee, he held her struggling hands in his and covered them with kisses, "do not refuse me! You——"
"Mr. Vasari, it is not right to detain me against my wish. Let go my hands."
He obeyed her, sprang to his feet, but continued his pleading tones:
"Daphne, I beseech you to recall your decision. You asked for a day to consider. Let me meet you here in twenty-four hours. I have been too precipitate. I surprise, frighten you. You were not prepared for this. Give me your final answer to-morrow."
"I have given you my answer."
He looked at her beautiful face, so cold in its firmness to resist all entreaties, and then, turning as if to address an imaginary audience, said:
"Can this cold statue really be the same maiden who but yesterday smiled at my gifts and blushed at my words? How quick a change has passed over her! Yes," he continued, observing the colour that mounted to Daphne's brow at these last words, "yes, blush at your actions of yesterday. You cannot deny that by your words and your smiles you have encouraged me to this confession."
"Mr. Vasari," she returned, speaking very humbly, with her eyes fixed on one pretty little foot that was shifting uneasily to and fro on the greensward, "I cannot deny that your attentions gave me pleasure. I am fond of admiration—perhaps too fond. I am only too sorry now that my vanity had led you to put a false interpretation on what was intended for friendship only, and must ask you to forgive me."
He looked with a wistful gaze at her fair face, but read no encouragement there. A long silence ensued during which he seemed to grow calmer and more resigned to his position.
"Enough of this supplication," he muttered, folding his cloak around him with a moody, half-scornful air.