“I don’t think the truth need sound rude.”
“Well,” still more impatiently, “what impression did I make upon you?”
“You must consider that there were at least fifty young ladies in Signora Vicenti’s salons that evening.”
“And about thirty old women; and I was lost in the crowd.”
“Not quite lost. I remember being attracted by a young lady who sat in a window niche apart—”
“Like ‘Brunswick’s fated chieftain.’ Pray go on.”
“And who seemed a little out of harmony with the rest of the company. Her manner struck me as unpleasantly ironical, but her small pale face interested me, and I even liked the mass of towzled hair brushed up from her low square forehead. I liked her black velvet gown, without any colour or ornament. It set off the thin white shoulders and long slender throat.”
“Did you think I was rich or poor, somebody or nobody?”
“I thought you were a clever girl, soured by some kind of disappointment.”
“And you felt sorry for me. Say you felt sorry for me!” she cried, her eyes coming back from the distant promontory, and fixing him suddenly, bright, keen, imperious in their eager questioning.