He, confusedly: “I took you—yes. You seemed to wish—you seemed—the case was peculiar—peculiar circumstances.”
She, with severity: “May I ask why the circumstances were peculiar? I saw nothing peculiar about the circumstances. It seemed to me it was a very simple matter. I told you that I had always had a great curiosity to see whether I could use oil paints, and I asked you a very plain question, whether you would let me study with you. Didn’t I?”
She: “Was there anything wrong—anything queer about my asking you?”
He: “No, no! Not at all—not in the least.”
She: “Didn’t you wish me to take the lessons of you? If you didn’t, it wasn’t kind of you to let me.”
He: “Oh, I was perfectly willing—very glad indeed, very much so—certainly!”
She: “If it wasn’t your custom to take pupils, you ought to have told me, and I wouldn’t have forced myself upon you.”
He, desperately: “It wasn’t forcing yourself upon me. The Lord knows how humbly grateful I was. It was like a hope of heaven!”
She: “Really, Mr. Ransom, this is very strange talk. What am I to understand by it? Why should you be grateful to teach me? Why should giving me lessons be like a hope of heaven?”