"The Valdeschi pit," said she.
"What is that?" he asked.
"The Valdeschi pit!" she exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you, the head of the family, don't know?"
"What is it?" he asked.
"Every true-born son or daughter of San Guido," she explained, "bears in the palm of the hand a little pit or dint, which is the survival in his descendants of the scar made by the thorn in the hand of San Guido himself. See—I have it."
She held out her hand.
Anthony took it, bent ever it, kissed it, studied it.
"It is a delicious hand—but I see no pit," he said.
"There," said she, placing the tip of her finger upon a tiny concavity in the rose-white flesh.
"That?" laughed Anthony. "That is nothing but a pretty little dimple."