Fifteen years before—ten years before—she would have died sooner than listen to a plan such as he proposed; but fifteen years of Rome blunts one's English sensibilities. Fifteen years of privation dulls one's moral sense. And money meant America. And little Tweetie Gregg had not lowered her voice or her laugh when she spoke that afternoon of Mary Gowd's absurd English fringe and her red wrists above her too-short gloves.
"How much?" asked Mary Gowd. He named a figure. She laughed.
"More—much more!"
He named another figure; then another.
"You will put it down on paper," said Mary Gowd, "and sign your name—to-morrow."
They drove the remainder of the way in silence. At her door in the Via Babbuino:
"You mean to marry her?" asked Mary Gowd.
Blue Cape shrugged eloquent shoulders:
"I think not," he said quite simply.
It was to be the Appian Way the next morning, with a stop at the Catacombs. Mary Gowd reached the hotel very early, but not so early as Caldini.