of the terraces and we gave the usual tribute of a gaze to the dome of Michael Angelo. Then my companion broke out, with perfect irrelevance:
"Don't you think I've been careful enough?"
It's needless—it would be odious—to tell you in detail what advantage I took of this. I hated (I told him) the slang of the subject, but I was bound to say he would be generally judged—in any English, in any French circle—to have shown what was called marked interest.
"Marked interest in what? Marked interest in whom? You can't appear to have been attentive to four women at once."
"Certainly not. But isn't there one whom you may be held particularly to have distinguished?"
"One?" Wilmerding stared. "You don't mean the old lady?"
"Commediante! Does your conscience say absolutely nothing to you?"
"My conscience? What has that got to do with it?"
"Call it then your sense of the way that—to effete prejudice—the affair may have looked."
"The affair—what affair?"
"Honestly, can't you guess? Surely there is one of the young ladies to whom the proprieties point with a tolerably straight ringer."
He hesitated; then he cried: "Heaven help me—you don't mean Veronica?"
The pleading wail with which he uttered this question was almost tragic, and for a moment his fate trembled in the balance. I was on the point of letting him off, as I may say, if he disliked the girl so much as that. It was a revelation—I didn't know how much he did dislike her. But at this moment a carriage stopped near
