He might have been doubting her word, but he was only, it appeared, gathering emphasis. "It would be dear—to make a gift of—at five shillings. If it had cost you even but five pence I wouldn't take it from you."
"Then," she asked, "what IS the matter?"
"Why, it has a crack."
It sounded, on his lips, so sharp, it had such an authority, that she almost started, while her colour, at the word, rose. It was as if he had been right, though his assurance was wonderful. "You answer for it without having looked?"
"I did look. I saw the object itself. It told its story. No wonder it's cheap."
"But it's exquisite," Charlotte, as if with an interest in it now made even tenderer and stranger, found herself moved to insist.
"Of course it's exquisite. That's the danger." Then a light visibly came to her—a light in which her friend suddenly and intensely showed. The reflection of it, as she smiled at him, was in her own face. "The danger—I see—is because you're superstitious."
"Per Dio, I'm superstitious! A crack is a crack—and an omen's an omen."
"You'd be afraid—?"
"Per Bacco!"