He put out his hand to straighten the tiny pleats—'feathers'—on her sleeve. Dio took his hand; he tried to draw it away, but she kept it in hers almost by force, roughly and tenderly at the same time, looking into his eyes with a smile. He turned away and this time, instead of turning red, he turned slightly pale under his bronze-coloured skin, frightened as a child.
This happened at every meeting: her charm, always new, seemed to him a miracle. Oh, this body, much too slender, the narrow hips, the angular movements, the rebellious curls of bluish-black hair cut much too short, the colour in the cheeks, dark-skinned like a boy's and girlishly tender, the colour of the rosy almond blossom in the gathering dusk, and the darkish down on the upper lip—an absurd little moustache! A girl who was like a boy. This was always so; but it was new that all of a sudden the girl did not want to be a boy.
She let his hand go, blushed and spoke of something different.
"It is not the pleater's fault, it is simply that I do not know how to wear these clothes—one can see at once I am not an Egyptian."
"Yes, but it is not the dress—it's your face and hair."
Dio did not wear a wig or plait her hair in small tight plaits as was the custom in Egypt.
"And Tuta ... Tutankhaton says that the bell suits me better."
"The bell" was the Cretan women's skirt, widening towards the hem.
"Oh, no! In our dress you are still more..." he broke off; he wanted to say 'still more like a sister' and dared not: in Egyptian 'sister' also meant 'beloved.'
"Still more beautiful," he added with cold politeness. They were not speaking their thoughts; both were thinking of what was important and speaking of trifles, as often happens when one is already in love and the other does not yet know her mind.