"And all those silks, and stuffs, and laces—do they please you no better?"
"They are not mine."
"Pooh! do you not know yet? A female thing, as beautiful as you are, makes hers everything she looks upon?"
"That is a fine phrase."
"And an empty one, you think. On my soul! no. Everything you see here is yours, if it please you."
She looked at him with dreaming perplexed eyes.
"What do you want of me?" she said, suddenly.
"Nay—why ask? All men are glad to give to women with such a face as yours."
She laughed a little; with the warmth, the rest, the wonder, the vague sense of some unknown danger, her old skill and courage rose. She knew that she had promised to be grateful always to this man: otherwise,—oh, God!—how she could have hated him, she thought!
"Why?" she answered, "why? Oh, only this: when I bought a measure of pears for Flamma in the market-place, the seller of them would sometimes pick me out a big yellow bon-chrétien, soft as butter, sweet as sugar, and offer it to me for myself. Well, when he did that, I always knew that the weight was short, or the fruit rotten. This is a wonderful pear you would give me; but is your measure false?"