"Oh, I don't mean those," she cried, flushing excitedly. "I mean Italian-American girls—I love American men! The man I'm going to marry is—something like you."
I like simplicity, and disingenuousness in the young—or in the old, for that matter—but her attitude was now so—so unconventional, with her large ankle rocking to and fro and her bosom, as she leaned forward, almost touching my shirt front—that I feared her father might be displeased were he to enter the room suddenly. The scent, moreover, was clouding my wits. With my hand to my forehead I rose ponderously.
"Let me see—" I mused with heavy facetiousness, as though cogitating a deep problem, "do I like them?" I walked a step or two and faced her. "You are the only one I know—and I certainly like you," I added mildly.
She uncoiled herself, rose up swiftly and took a step in my direction. On a sudden she stumbled, gave a little cry and pitched forward, so that I barely had time to catch her.
"Did you turn your ankle?"
"No—yes," she gasped and lay for a moment in my arms breathing heavily, her bosom pressing against mine.
"Let me lead you—" I began.
"It's all right," she whispered thickly. "Just let me rest a minute." And then that astonishing girl suddenly lifted up her hand, passed it lightly over my head and murmured that she loved the color of my hair!
"It's light brown," she explained, "not pitch black like mine," and then she rested her head lightly on my shoulder. "And I love your name—it's so nice—Randolph!"
"Let me lead you," I murmured, as though I were the helpless one.