"May I not send you a cup of tea?"
I started, and the razor in my hand gave a great jerk, happily not into my face: the woman I had taken for a chambermaid was Cenni.
"Oh," I said, "it is you!"
She laughed, and said, with a mock obeisance, "Yes, sir." But, looking at me in the mirror, she laughed again, and said—"Only go on. I am waiting for the Byron face to appear again, when these stalks are swept off. We can talk a little meanwhile."
"Indeed? But, you see, there is one more forbidden subject between us. There are four now: the step-ladder, the Sultan of Morocco, the sea-dove, and now Father Paphuntius."
"It's astonishing how sharp you are; almost as keen as your razor. Only take care, you may cut your own skin!"
"Not likely. My hand is skilled in using knives. Am I mistaken in supposing that you have come to ask for secrecy on my part?"
"Not altogether. That was a part of my motive in coming."
"You magnanimously promised me a kiss for keeping the other secrets. What will be my fee for this?"
"A bite, and yet a kiss. It will hurt you, and yet it is meant as a caress—like those biting kisses which some over-fond mothers bestow on their little ones, and make them cry."