had for him the freshness of uncut flowers, the same virginity, the same unused look. It was even presumable that up to this moment no man had been permitted to kiss her.
Anne met his eyes, and for the first time she was afraid of Gino Curatulo. She felt the touch of something not to be played with, and she knew that she had been playing. Curatulo knew it also; but he did not intend that she should play always. When he spoke again he did so quietly, and she divined a certain tender chivalry in his instant withdrawal of an expressiveness that had alarmed her.
They had come to the angle of the villa gardens from which a modern and uninteresting road leads tothe Pincian Hill, and here Mrs. Garrison’s automobile was waiting for her by appointment.
“Is it permitted that I walk with you here again often?” asked Curatulo.
Anne had recovered her self-possession. She considered him a moment or two with her muff against her lips, then she asked a counter question:—
Do you always tell the truth?”
He seemed on the point of giving a mechanical and vigorous assent, but hesitated, smiled, and told it.
“Not always.”
“Will you tell the truth now?”
38
