"Oh, I daresay poppa and momma have got their own opinions," I said, "but that is mine."
"You do not think as they!" he exclaimed.
"I don't know what they think," I explained. "I haven't asked them. But I've got my own thinker, you know." I searched for simple expressions, and I seemed to make him understand.
"So! Then this prejudice is dead for you, Senorita—mees?"
"I like 'Senorita' best," I said. "I believe it is." At that moment I divined that he was a Roman Catholic. How, I don't know. So I added, "But I've never had the slightest reason to give it a thought."
"That must be," he said softly, "because you never met, Senorita—may I say this?—one single gentleman w'at is Catholic."
"That's rather clever of you," I said. "Perhaps that is why."
The Italian character struck me as having interesting phases, but I did not allow this impression to appear. I looked indifferently out of the window. Italian sunsets are very becoming.
"The signora, your mother, has told me that you have no brothers or sisters, Mees Wick. She made me the confidence—it was most kind."
"There never has been any secret about it, Count."