“See, Chick, isn’t that the loveliest old bracelet? ...” A thick circle, not quite joined, of gold, the two ends which almost touched circled with tiny crowns of blue, blue turquoises. “And oh, Chick, just look at that ring. ...” A lovely old thing of Florentine gold, studded with seed pearls and surrounding a topaz as richly dark as the gold itself. Chick put a hand on her arm and urged her along to the next window which, being full of ancient books and maps was not quite so enthralling.
Perhaps it hadn’t been really tactful to admire that ring, almost as though she had wanted it herself. She had Chick’s own ring, hadn’t she? The little emerald, very prettily set, not quite good enough, not quite old enough to be called an antique, not quite the same as though it had been bought just for her. ... Cynthia checked the feeling. It was unkind, ungracious, ungrateful. Chick was just a poster artist in the first year of his success, he had come all the way to Venice just to see her, or at least she supposed he had, for he hadn’t said so yet. ...
And thank goodness, here was the traghetti. Perhaps they’d find that stupid lost bundle of Chick’s at last.
Word must have been passed around for there was someone, Chick exclaimed that it was Luigi, waiting for them, his weathered old face a mass of interweaving laughter wrinkles. Sturdy, stocky, clad in ragged clean shirt, with the uniform black trousers and sash of the public gondolier, Luigi dashed up the short flight of steps, rushed toward them. In his outstretched hand he held a parcel, small, oh very small. Not big enough even for a quarter of a pound of butter.
It had been opened, clumsily retied with gray twine. Thrusting it into Chick’s hand he followed with a flood of rapid Italian. Once more a circle of interested onlookers threatened to engulf them.
Chick gave a hasty order, grasped Cynthia’s arm and thrust her down the steps, into the Luigi gondola. Then waved a wide gesture down the Grand Canal toward the lagoon beyond.
“Buono! ... Buono!” agreed Luigi, nodding vigorously like a porcelain mandarin. There came a faint cheer from the crowd on the quay and Cynthia recognized a few of their morning’s spectators. But the man with the galosh, the woman with the cabbage were not present. From the comfortable cushioned seat she watched palaces of kings and doges, princesses, great composers and poets glide past. This was heavenly, this was the way to see Venice, to see any place, with Chick’s hand in hers and not a care in the world.
Then she saw the little package in his other hand, glanced up inquiringly and caught the look in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, two beats. No nephew ever looked like that at a maiden aunt!
“Let’s,” said Chick, taking his hand out of hers, “let’s both undo the package. You do want to see what’s in it, don’t you, Cyn?”
Cynthia laughed. “Here I’ve been hustled and bustled over half of Venice, in jail and out again ...” she addressed the diminishing houses of candy pink, baby blue, as the gondola struck the wide lagoon and rocked slowly away from the town, “and he asks me, do I want to know what’s in it. Man alive, do you think I’ve got no curiosity?”