“I must go now. It doesn’t do to keep the auto waiting.”
In her grave little voice, was all the circumspection of the child that has learnt to fend for itself, that knows by experience that it will only be tolerated so long as it gives no trouble, runs counter to no prejudices, is guilty of no indiscretions.
“It has been so pleasant to talk to someone English. Good-bye Miss——?”
Her little pause was exactly that of a grown-up person, before an unknown or unremembered name. And what precocity of discernment had told her that “Miss” was the suitable prefix?
“Miss Arbell,” said I. “Tell me your name before you go.”
“Laura di san Marzano.”
She pronounced Laura in the Italian way—Lah-o-ra.
When I held out my hand, she kissed it, as Italian children do, and after she had climbed to the driving-seat, she waved to me, before turning the grey car down the hill.
I looked for her every morning after that, but she never came to the Borghese Gardens again.