Johnny knew girls. He knew them, he would have informed you, backwards and forwards. And he liked girls—devilish cunning games, with the same old trumps up their sleeves—when they wore 'em—but this girl was just puzzlingly different enough to evoke a curiously haunting wonder.
Was it the difference in environment? Or in herself? He couldn't quite make her out.
He seemed to be groping for some clew, some familiar sign that would resolve all the unfamiliarities to old acquaintance.
Meanwhile he continued to smile cheerily at the young person he had so rudely designated as a little Wop and gestured to the seat beside him.
"Hop in," he admonished. "Let us be off before that horse comes and steps on me. That's a dear girl."
But Maria Angelina shook her dark head.
"I told you, no, Signor, I could not go. In my country one does not ride with young men."
"But you are in my country now. And in my country one jolly well rides with young men."
"In your country—but for a time, yes." Unconvinced Maria Angelina stood by her rail, like the boy upon the burning deck.
"But your aunt—cousin, I mean—would let you," he argued. "I'll shout up now and see——"