"Pardon me. I have no scorn for a tyro. But you would not come to the Accademe; you dislike 'Plato' too much."
Fay looked up at him half shyly, half mischievously.
"Yes, I do dislike you, when you look down on me as Richelieu might have looked down on his kitten."
"Liking to see its play?" said Keane, half sadly. "Contrasting its gay insouciance with his own toil and turmoil, regretting, perhaps, the time when trifles made his joy as they did his kitten's? If I were to look on you so, there would not be much to offend you."
"You do not think so of me, or you would speak to me as if I were an intelligent being, not a silly little thing."
"How do you know I think you silly?"
"Because you think all women so."
"Perhaps; but then you should rather try to redeem me from my error in doctrine. Come, let us sign a treaty of peace. Take me under the limes. I want some fresh air after writing all day; and in payment I will teach you Euclid, as you vainly beseeched your cousin to do yesterday."
"Will you?" cried Fay, eagerly. Then she threw back her head. "I never am won by bribes."
"Nor yet by threats? What a difficult young lady you are. Come, show me your shrubbery sanctum now you have invaded mine."