violate. People could remove nothing from its mood of grave and quiet reverie; silence could add nothing to its dignity and sadness.
To the bright-haired American girl who came and went daily under its trees, the spot had a penetrating charm. Sometimes it quieted her. Sometimes it would make her more joyous for pure esthetic delight in having a background of such ancient stateliness to her happy, eager days.
Her aunt did not share the girl’s enthusiasm. “My blood is older and colder than yours,” she said; “I like these places to look at, but they seem chilly and dreary and altogether too historical to live in.”
“Do you really, really prefer your own white-painted and immaculate vestibule on the sunny side of the avenue?” asked Anne.
“I really, really do,” replied Mrs. Garrison, with decision.
It was a few days after Gino Curatulo’s visit, and they were on their way to an evening reception.
“I wonder if Curatulo will be there,” said Anne.
“Why did you talk to him so little when he called?” asked Margaret.
“I did not feel like talking, and was amused watching you make friends with the enemy, seeing17
