The day was nearly done. The people began to scatter. The shadows grew very long. He painted, not glancing once elsewhere than at his study. Bébée's baskets were quite empty.
She rose, and lingered, and regarded him wistfully: he was angered; perhaps she had been rude? Her little heart failed her.
If he would only look up!
But he did not look up; he kept his handsome dark face studiously over the canvas of the Broodhuis. She would have seen a smile in his eyes if he had lifted them; but he never raised his lids.
Bébée hesitated: take the stockings she would not; but perhaps she had refused them too roughly. She wished so that he would look up and save her speaking first; but he knew what he was about too warily and well to help her thus.
She waited awhile, then took one little red moss-rosebud that she had saved all day in a corner of her basket, and held it out to him frankly, shyly, as a peace offering.
"Was I rude? I did not mean to be. But I cannot take the stockings; and why did you tell me that falsehood?"
He took the rosebud and rose too, and smiled; but he did not meet her eyes.
"Let us forget the whole matter; it is not worth a sou. If you do not take the box, leave it; it is of no use to me."
"I cannot take it."