“It was the suddenness, monsieur. My heart is weak.” (The wicked fibster! It was as tough as indiarubber, what there was of it.)
He expressed his compunction:
“And soft, I am sure,” said he, “on behalf of a penitent sinner.”
She smiled, in a recovered way.
“If you please, monsieur. But you need not take advantage of that absolution. A soft heart is the most fatal possession a girl can own to in this bad world. It were as foolish as to flaunt her jewels in the Ghetto.”
Tiretta, with a laugh, released the slender waist.
“If you can stand alone,” he said.
“O, yes!” she answered—and indeed there was no doubt she could.
He looked at her with a twinkling gravity.
“What is your name, child?”