“Oh, I know a little German and Italian, though I can't lay claim to Czech,” she answered gayly. “Why are you so surprised that I should possess such modest accomplishments?”
“It's not the accomplishments.” He hesitated.
“No. You are surprised that I should be interested in humanity.” She stood facing him. “Well, I am,” she said, half humorously, half defiantly. “I believe I am more interested in human beings than in anything else in the world—when they are natural, as these people are and when they will tell one their joys and their troubles and their opinions.”
“Enthusiasm, self-assertion, had as usual, transformed her, and he saw the colour glowing under her olive skin. Was she accusing him of a lack of frankness?
“And why,” he asked, collecting himself, “did you think—” he got no further.
“It's because you have an idea that I'm a selfish Epicurean, if that isn't tautology—because I'm interested in a form of art, the rest of the world can go hang. You have a prejudice against artists. I wish I really were one, but I'm not.”
This speech contained so many surprises for him that he scarcely knew how to answer it.
“Give me a little time,” he begged, “and perhaps I'll get over my prejudices. The worst of them, at any rate. You are helping me to do so.” He tried to speak lightly, but his tone was more serious in the next sentence. “It seems to me personally that you have proved your concern for your fellow-creatures.”
Her colour grew deeper, her manner changed.
“That gives me the opportunity to say something I have hoped to say, ever since I saw you. I hoped I should see you again.”