“Ristofalo is coming here this evening,” said he, taking a seat in the alley window.
Mary looked at him with sidelong merriment. The Italian was coming to see Mrs. Riley.
“Why, John,” whispered Mary, standing beside him, “she’s nearly ten years older than he is!”
But John quoted the old saying about a man’s age being what he feels, and a woman’s what she looks.
“Why,—but—dear, it is scarcely a fortnight since she declared nothing could ever induce”—
“Let her alone,” said John, indulgently. “Hasn’t she said half-a-dozen times that it isn’t good for woman to be alone? A widow’s a woman—and you never disputed it.”
“O John,” laughed Mary, “for shame! You know I didn’t mean that. You know I never could mean that.”
And when John would have maintained his ground she besought him not to jest in that direction, with eyes so ready for tears that he desisted.
“I only meant to be generous to Mrs. Riley,” he said.
“I know it,” said Mary, caressingly; “you’re always on the generous side of everything.”