"We have so little in common," said Blanche.
"Thou shalt have all," he stammered, forgetting, in his hurt, the magic bags. "Why, 'tis for thee I send forth all my ships. I will be but thy pensioner."
A shadow of pain passed over the maiden's face.
"I mean not goods nor possessions, nor any manner of vulgar things; 'tis of mind and soul I speak, and ours be far apart."
"My goods be not vulgar!" cried young merchant Hugh. "Rare silks and cloths from the East have I, and purest pearls, for thy white throat. No common thing is there in all my store."
Then the little foot of Blanche tapped impatiently on the stone floor.
"'Tis of no avail that I try to make thee understand! I say there be depths in my nature that thou mayst not satisfy; also am I full busy this morning and must beg to be excused"—and with that she drew open the heavy oaken door, leaving him in the long room as one dazed.
Then he bethought him of his bags, and drew them out too late, taking a whiff from each as a sob rose in his throat. Suddenly the fair hair of Blanche appeared again in the doorway, and she smiled as a stranger upon him.
"I forgot to say that I wish thee all manner of good, and great prosperity," she said amiably.
Then out of Hugh's mouth came a purple speech, and a speech of the color of gold; and little iridescent mists floated through the air, while a rose-colored bubble rested for a moment on the white eyelids of the maiden. The dull-paneled room was as the breaking of a rainbow; yet all he had said was, "Wilt not wed me, Blanche?" But he said it in rose color and purple and gold.