"Well, I ask nothing less than that you accept the invitation on the card that you examined; I beg you to soothe my last hours by remaining to dine."
"Oh, but really," she exclaimed. "I am afraid—"
"You cannot urge that you are required at your atelier so late. And as to any social engagement, I do not hesitate to affirm that my approaching death in life puts forth the stronger claim."
"On me? When all is said, a new acquaintance!"
"What is Time?" demanded the painter. And she was not prepared with a reply.
"Your comrades will be strangers to me," she argued.
"It is a fact that now I wish they were not coming," acknowledged the host; "but they are young men of the loftiest genius, and some day it may provide a piquant anecdote to relate how you met them all in the period of their obscurity."
"My friend," she said, hurt, "if I consented, it would not be to garner anecdotes."
"Ah, a million regrets!" he cried; "I spoke foolishly."
"It was tactless."