Gina could not possibly know how pathetic that sounded to me. The curious savagery of children toward those alien of race, I reflected, is one of the last survivals of the tribal state of mankind. The somewhat overpowering scent she used struck me as a survival also, though I could not remember of what.
"There is my cousin, Jennie—her name is really Gemma"—the girl warmed to her story—"she tried to be American, too, but she gave it up. When I went to finishing school in Darien, she was already married. Four years she's been married and has three children. Now what's the use of that? She can't have a good time now! Babies—babies—babies!—she hardly ever goes out. And her husband's quite well off, too. He's a contractor. But he's an Italian—and thinks that's the right way for a girl to live. Uh-h!" and she shuddered slightly. "I'm going to marry an American!"
A fierce light of resolution leaped to her liquid dark eyes and I own I felt terrified.
"But—but aren't you young to think of marriage?" I murmured lamely.
"Young!" repeated Gina in surprise. "I've been thinking about the kind of man I'm going to marry since I was thirteen years old!"
Obviously that was one subject she had given mature reflection.
"Haven't you?" she demanded.
"No," I laughed, "not as young as that."
"Do you like Italian girls?" she leaned toward me abruptly, wistfully.
"Yes, indeed!" I answered her, laughing. "There is Dante's Beatrice—and Petrarch's Laura—and even Raphael's Fornarina must have been—"