Beatrice ceased to sew, tossed her hair away from her face, and shook her head slowly. The pink in her cheeks had deepened, but her luminous eyes gazed straight into mine.
"Signore," she said, impressively, "I ask-a to credit me. I do not tink of eit'er of desa men."
I found myself abashed, as if I had been making light of sacred things.
"I beg your pardon, Beatrice," I stammered. "It's not my business, of course. I'm sorry I spoke of it."
Without making reply she bent over her work again. For some moments she sewed, while I chid myself for suggesting romance to a sensible child.
Rapid steps beat upon the stairs outside, and Beatrice's father hurried into the little den.
"Beatrice," he called, sharply, in his own language, "go thou to the ticket-office. It is the hour of admittance for the people. I will finish the angel."
The girl dropped her needle and sped out through the door. The manager slammed it behind her, turned toward me, drew up his shoulders, and raised his eyes toward heaven.
"May the saints aid me to make righteous that child!" he exclaimed. "Both of my helpers came to me to-day to ask her in marriage. She promised herself to both last night."