“I shall never understand,” said Carlotta.
Two great tears stood, one on each eyelid, and fell simultaneously down her cheeks.
“What on earth are you crying for?” I asked aghast.
“You are not pleased with me,” said Carlotta, with a choke in her voice.
The two tears fell like rain-drops on to her bosom, and she stood before me a picture of exquisite woe. Then I did a very foolish thing.
Last week a little gold brooch in a jeweller’s window caught my fancy. I bought it with the idea of presenting it to Carlotta, when an occasion offered, as a reward for peculiar merit. Now, however, to show her that I was in no way angry, I abstracted the bauble from the drawer of my writing-table, and put it in her hand.
“You please me so much, Carlotta,” said I, “that I have bought this for you.”
Before I had completed the sentence, and before I knew what she was after, her arms were round my neck and she was hugging me like a child.
I have never experienced such an odd sensation in my life as the touch of Carlotta’s fresh young arms upon my face and the perfume of spring violets that emanated from her person. I released myself swiftly from her indecorous demonstration.
“You mustn’t do things like that,” said I, severely. “In England, young women are only allowed to embrace their grandfathers.” Carlotta looked at me wide-eyed, with the fox-terrier knitting of the forehead.