“I heard you cry out,” said a voice, very full and low. “Did I hurt you? I hope not.”
“No,” I said without looking up. “Small thanks to you that you didn’t!”
My tone silenced her for a moment. Somehow, though, I got the feeling that she was amused more than abashed at my resentment. And her voice was suspiciously meek when she presently spoke again.
“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said, busily scraping away at my copperplate. “I’m an archeologist, engaged in exhuming an ancient ruin from a square mile of mud.”
She laughed; but in a moment became grave again. “I’m so sorry!” she said. “I know I shouldn’t come plunging around turns in that reckless way. May I—I should like to—buy your picture?”
“You may not,” I replied.
“That isn’t quite fair, is it?” she asked. “If I have done damage, I should be allowed to repair it.”
“Repair?” said I. “How do you propose to do it? I suppose that you think a picture that can be bought for a hundred-dollar bill can be painted with a hundred-dollar bill.”
“No; I’m not altogether a Philistine,” she said, and I looked up at her for the first time. Her face—(Elision and Comment by Kent: I know her face from the sketches. Why could he not have described the horse? However, there’s one point clear: she is a woman of means.)