“My dear child!” protested Mr. Lewis, and Cynthia laughed.
“Well, give me what you like. It will be all right anyway.—Oh, American money, how nice to see it again!” And it was quite a roll, too.
She took the two bills and handed over the painting. “Better take along this cardboard, it’s just the back of the pad, but it fits, and will keep the sketch from being crumpled. And now I really must run. I promised a little English girl at the pensione that I’d have dinner with her tonight and tell her all about the palio. She couldn’t afford a ticket for it. I know she won’t at all approve of the way it turned out. ‘Most unsportin’ my deah!’” she laughed, mimicking the other’s accent.
“Goodbye,” waved Cynthia from the doorway. Nice Mr. Lewis. It had been fun, the tea, and such an appreciative audience—and the two dollars. She opened her purse, just for the comfort of seeing good United States greenbacks again, shook them out of the rumple and gazed at them, startled. Not two one dollar bills, but two for ten dollars each. Twenty good bucks! Oh gosh ... oh glory ... oh joy!
“Miss British Isles can wait,” said Cynthia aloud to the deserted street and turned rapidly in a direction opposite to the pensione. She knew somehow that her luck would hold, her marvelous luck of the day, and that even as late as this sunset hour, with the rosy housefronts of Siena still holding their perpetual sunset glow, the little man in the frame shop would still be there.
Chick that night was no longer propped limply, somewhat forlornly, between the dusty, green tinged mirror and the box of cold cream, but smiled gaily, resplendently, festively, in a frame of wine colored leather with a border of acorns and gold beading.
Cynthia bent over and bestowed a brief kiss on the chilly glass.
“Hi, Chick ... Darling,” she laughed. And turned off the light.