“But then, you haven’t earned these,” she said, looking at him almost with rebuke, “if you went in of your own accord.”
“I go in because it is my mestiere, Signorina,” the boy said, simply. “I go in by force.”
He looked at her and then again at the cigarettes. His expression said, “Can you refuse me?” There was a quite definite and conscious attempt to cajole her to generosity in his eyes, and in the pose he assumed. Vere saw it, and knew that if there had been a mirror within reach at that moment the boy would have been looking into it, frankly admiring himself.
In Italy the narcissus blooms at all seasons of the year.
She was charmed by the boy, for he did his luring well, and she was susceptible to all that was naturally picturesque. But a gay little spirit of resistance sprang up like a flame and danced within her.
She let her hands fall to her sides.
“But you like going in?”
“Signorina?”
“You enjoy diving?”
He shrugged his shoulders, and again used what seemed with him a favorite expression.