“Every night!” And she opened her clear eyes very wide. “That to me is:—” and she hesitated a moment—“is very wonderful.” A few minutes later she asked, “Which country do you prefer?”
“There is one country I prefer to all others. I think you would do the same.”
She looked at me a moment, and then she said softly, “Italy?”
“Italy,” I answered softly, too; and for a moment we looked at each other. She looked as pretty as if, instead of showing her photographs, I had been making love to her. To increase the analogy, she glanced away, blushing. There was a silence, which she broke at last by saying,—
“That is the place which, in particular, I thought of going to.”
“Oh, that’s the place, that’s the place!” I said.
She looked at two or three photographs in silence. “They say it is not so dear.”
“As some other countries? Yes, that is not the least of its charms.”
“But it is all very dear, is it not?”
“Europe, you mean?”