“Where then, please? Under my clothes?”
“Wherever you like. But it isn’t then, if you will,” he added, “worth talking about.”
“It’s only worth talking about, mio caro,” she smiled, “from your having begun it. My question is only reasonable—so that your idea may stand or fall by your answer to it. If I should pin one of these things on for you would it be, to your mind, that I might go home and show it to Maggie as your present?”
They had had between them often in talk the refrain, jocosely, descriptively applied, of “old Roman.” It had been, as a pleasantry, in the other time, his explanation to her of everything; but nothing, truly, had even seemed so old-Roman as the shrug in which he now indulged. “Why in the world not?”
“Because—on our basis—it would be impossible to give her an account of the pretext.”
“The pretext—?” He wondered.
“The occasion. This ramble that we shall have had together and that we’re not to speak of.”
“Oh yes,” he said after a moment “I remember we’re not to speak of it.”
“That of course you’re pledged to. And the one thing, you see, goes with the other. So you don’t insist.”
He had again, at random, laid back his trinket; with which he quite turned to her, a little wearily at last—even a little impatiently. “I don’t insist.”