“May I look?” she asked, in a rather shaky voice.
“If you will! But I warn you that that fly-leaf will tell you what you have forbidden me to reveal.”
“Oh!” cried she, with a start. And the book fell upon the shining sand.
He stooped and picked it up. “Have you had enough of it?”
“More than enough,—for the present, at least,” she replied, smiling faintly. “However,” she added, “I should like to look at the outside of it. How very old it looks,” said she, as she took it in her hand. “Why, the corners are worn perfectly round; you must know it all by heart.”
“Almost,” said he.
“And the back—what!” exclaimed she, with astonishment. “Why, this is not the Iliad! It is a copy of the New Testament!” And she held up the faded title before his eyes.
With a black look of annoyance, but without a word, the Don seized the book, thrust it into his pocket, and began striding to and fro. Presently he stopped in front of her.
“I put my hand into the wrong pocket,” said he, with obvious vexation.
“Why, yes. But what’s the harm?” said she, in a soothing voice. “Carrying a Testament in one’s pocket is nothing to be ashamed of, I hope?”