THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"I'll keep it."
"I'd rather you threw it away, in the street."
"And I'd rather keep it. I'll tell you what. I'll trade it for a fresh one," with a boldness he had not thought himself capable of.
"I haven't any. That was one of the few I ever possessed. And it would please me if you threw it away. Some day I'll tell you why."
"All right, sister. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I kept it."
"I would mind very much. Perhaps in Florence or Venice I'll have another taken; and to one of those you'll be welcome. But not that. Would you mind if we returned at once? I am very tired."
William was careful to pick out a carriage with a taximeter. Neither of them spoke until they reached the Corso. He gave her a bundle of bank-notes.
"Oh yes; I had forgotten. You must be very careful of your money. Never carry a large sum about. Never keep your letter of credit with the little pink book of identification."
"I'm getting wise. I keep 'em separated these days. I wish we were at the same hotel. I'd like to know about that photograph. I mean," he added, hastily, "I'd like to see the guy who tore it up. You see, I kick on anybody tearing up something that was yours. You understand, don't you?"
"I believe I do. "Some impulse impelled her to add: "Don't put me on a pedestal. I'm just an
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