"Yes," said he, brazenly, nodding his head.
"Oh, that was very wrong," said Annunziata, sadly shaking hers.
"No," said he. "Because, in the first place, it's a matter of proverbial wisdom that stolen marchpane's sweetest. And, in the next place, I stole it quite openly, under the eye of the person it belonged to, and she made no effort to defend her property. Seeing which, I even went so far as to explain to her why I was stealing it. 'There's a young limb o' mischief with a sweet tooth at Sant' Alessina,' I explained, 'who regularly levies blackmail upon me. I'm stealing this for her.' And then the lady I was stealing from told me I might steal as much as ever I thought good."
"Oh-h-h," said Annunziata, a long-drawn Oh of relief. "Then you didn't steal it—she gave it to you."
"Well," said John, "if casuistry like that can ease your conscience—if you feel that you can conscientiously receive it—" And he allowed his inflection to complete the sentence.
"Give it to me," said Annunziata, holding out her hands, and dancing up and down in glee and in impatience.
"Nenni-dà," said John. "Not till after dinner. I'm not going to be a party to the spoiling of a fair, young, healthy appetite."
Pain wrote itself upon Annunziata's brow. "Oh," she grieved, "must I wait till after dinner?"
"Yes," said John.
For a breathing-space she struggled. "Would it be bad of me," she asked, "if I begged for just a little now?"