And counting the candles, I perceived they were nineteen.
Probably my joy was somewhat tempered by confusion, to think that my little equivocation on the subject of my age had been discovered. As I looked up from the cake to its giver, I met a pair of eyes that were gleaming with mischievous raillery; and she shook her head at me, and murmured, “Oh, you fibber!”
“How on earth did you find out?” I wondered.
“Oh—a little bird,” laughed she.
“I don’t think it’s at all respectful of you to call Aunt Elizabeth a little bird,” said I.
After dinner we went out upon the terrace. It was a warm night, and there was a moon. A moonlit night in Italy—dark velvet shot with silver. And the air was intoxicant with the scent of hyacinths. We were in March; the garden had become a wilderness of spring flowers, narcissuses and jonquils, crocuses, anemones, tulips, and hyacinths; hyacinths, everywhere hyacinths. Rosalys had thrown a bit of white lace over her hair. Oh, I assure you, in the moonlight, with the white lace over her hair, with her pale face, and her eyes, her shining, mysterious eyes—oh, I promise you, she was lovely.
“How beautiful the garden is, in the moonlight, isn’t it?” she said. “The shadows, and the statues, and the fountains. And how sweet the air is. They’re the hyacinths that smell so sweet. The hyacinth is your birthday flower, you know. Hyacinths bring happiness to people born in March.”
I looked into her eyes, and my heart thrilled and thrilled. And then, somehow, somehow... Oh, I don’t remember what I said; only somehow, somehow... Ah, but I do remember very clearly what she answered—so softly, so softly, while her hand lay in mine. I remember it very clearly, and at the memory, even now, years afterwards, I confess my heart thrills again.
We were joined, in a minute or two, by Monsignor Parlaghi, and we tried to behave as if he were not unwelcome.