"Then why your apparent graciousness?"
"I desire," said Ouida, "to declare a never-ending war."
"Will you not," appealed the preacher, "even listen to what I have to say?"
"No. Your course admits of no explanation. Let me tell you now, you can never creep again within the circle of my friendship."
"If you could but dig beneath the surface," he audibly sighed, "and see why I preached my sermon against the nude in art, 'twould be you, not I, seeking pardon."
"I seek your pardon after that which you have done? Listen," said the woman, "you played the part of a friend. You sought me out. To you I unfolded my dreams, my conceptions. You said they were divine, and yet when I attended your church, you thundered forth invectives against my art, and hold me up to public ridicule. You would attempt to win a public applause as fleeting as the dew upon the morning rose. If I had loved you, I would hate you for this act."
"I will explain," he said, with vehemence and commanding power before which, even for a moment, this imperious creature quailed. "I am not like the vain flatterers that follow in your train. I will speak, even if the hate in you, like a dagger, shall stab me in a vital spot."
"Speak then," said she, with resignation. "Courtesy compels me to listen to one who has honored my humble roof with his august presence."
"Ah, hear me Ouida. The knowledge, sudden and fierce, has forced itself upon me, that I love you with all the strength of my nature!"
