He mused a moment whether he should offer her back her sequins as a gift; he thought not. He divined aright that she had only sold them because she had innocently believed in the fullness of their value. He tried to tempt her otherwise.
She was young; she had a beautiful face, and a form like an Atalanta. She wore a scarlet sash girt to her loins, and seemed to care for color and for grace. There was about her a dauntless and imperious freedom. She could not be indifferent to all those powers which she besought with such passion for another.
He had various treasures shown to her,—treasures of jewels, of gold and silver, of fine workmanship, of woven stuffs delicate and gorgeous as the wing of a butterfly. She looked at them tranquilly, as though her eyes had rested on such things all her days.
"They are beautiful, no doubt," she said simply. "But I marvel that you—being a man—care for such things as these."
"Nay; I care to give them to beautiful women, when such come to me,—as one has come to-day. Do me one trifling grace; choose some one thing at least out of these to keep in remembrance of me."
Her eyes burned in anger.
"If I think your bread would soil my lips, is it likely I should think to touch your treasure with my hands and have them still clean?"
"You are very perverse," he said, relinquishing his efforts with regret.
He knew how to wait for a netted fruit to ripen under the rays of temptation: gold was a forcing-heat—slow, but sure.
She watched him with musing eyes that had a gleam of scorn in them, and yet a vague apprehension.