"My mother allows this when my sister Lucia and her fiancé, Paolo Tosti, are together," said Maria Angelina. "I am in the next room with a book. And that is very advanced. It is because Mamma is American."
"I'll say it's advanced," Johnny muttered. "You mean—you mean your sister and that—that toasted one she's engaged to have never really seen each other——?"
"Oh, they have seen each other——"
"The poor fish," said Johnny heavily. He glanced with increasing curiosity at the young girl by his side. . . . After all, this jeune fille thing might be true. . . .
"Well, I'm glad your mother was American," he declared, beginning to strum upon the piano and inviting her to a seat beside him.
But Maria Angelina remained looking through her music.
"Then I am only half a Wop," said she. She added, bright mischief between her long lashes, "What is it then—a Wop?"
Johnny Byrd, striking random chords, looked up at her.
"What is it?" he repeated. "I'll say that depends. . . . Sometimes it's dark and greasy and throws bombs. . . . Sometimes it's bad and glad and sings Carmen. . . . And sometimes it's—it's——"
Deliberately he stared at the small braid-bound head, the shadowy dark of the eyes, the scarlet curve of the small mouth.