"As certainly as she is an Italian; she will love to think she is making the way easy for a pair of innamorati."
"Oh!" said Ragna.
"Of course," said Mirko, "we are not innamorati, we are friends,—but she would not understand the distinction," he smiled to himself, "and in any case how can it matter to you what she supposes?"
"I won't promise to come," declared Ragna; still the charm of such an escapade appealed to her romantic imagination—and after all, there was no real harm in it!
Mirko was satisfied and took advantage of the dusk to kiss her hand twice when he had put her in a "botte" in the Piazza di Spagna. The act had lost its significance to her since she had come to Italy and had seen how generally it was practised, but this evening the pressure of Mirko's lips sent a thrill through her fingers.
As she lay in her bed that night, Mirko's words: "I would rather die than offend you!" rang in her ears and she smiled happily.
Dinner was drawing to an end and the long Pension dining-room was filled with a hubbub of conversation in many languages. Estelle Hagerup and Astrid were having a lively discussion on the advantages of matrimony as compared with single blessedness.
"I say," declared Estelle, "that no man living is worth a woman's giving up her whole life to him. Why should she? Why should the woman always give up to the man? Then there is the monotony of it. I should be tired to death of seeing the same face across the breakfast table every day in the year, and year in, year out!"
"You needn't look at him then," said Astrid, "or you could make him sit at the side, or have your breakfast in bed. Now I think it must be such a comfort to have someone to grumble at, and who is obliged to listen to you!"