As he swung away Tony glanced after him with a suggestion of malice, then he transferred his gaze to the empty gateway.
“I see no one else with whom you can talk Italian. Perhaps for ten minutes you will deign to speak English with me?”
“I am too tired to talk,” she threw over her shoulder as she followed her father through the gate.
They plunged into a tangle of tortuous paved streets, the houses pressing each other as closely as if there were not all the outside world to spread in. Grotta del Monte is built on a slope and its streets are in reality long narrow flights of stairs all converging in the little piazza. The moon was not yet up, and aside from an occasional flickering light before a madonna’s shrine, the way was black.
“Signorina, take my arm. I’m afraid maybe you fall.”
Tony’s voice was humbly persuasive. Constance laughed and laid her hand lightly on his arm. Tony dropped his own hand over hers and held her firmly. Neither spoke until they came to the piazza.
“Signorina,” he whispered, “you make me ver’ happy tonight.”
“I’m tired, Tony. I’m not quite myself.”
“No, signorina, yesterday I sink maybe you not yourself, but to-day you ver’ good ver’ kind—jus’ your own self ze way you ought to be.”