turning to Gino, she added: “I feel as though I must apologize to Signor Curatulo for abusing the city.”
But he shrugged his shoulders. “You may say what you like,” he said, “though I could tell you something better than what you say.”
The Englishman turned a vacant stare upon the Italian. It was also a brief stare, for though he did not intend to be rude, it was obviously not worth while to be aware for any length of time of so very foreign a person, who wore a colored stone instead of a pearl or gold stud in his shirt front, and more vests than was compatible with the British idea of simplicity or manhood.
Gino fixed a monocle firmly in his eye and looked at the Englishman haughtily; but Anne felt that the Anglo-Saxon’s sublime unconsciousness of either giving or taking offense gave him an advantage over her friend which she resented.
She did not speak of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or the impression of splendor and overwhelming majesty which she had received from it, because it amused her to startle the writer of romance. He was sitting now with his hands on his knees, looking at a spot above her head and chuckling in a kindly way to himself.
“St. Peter’s nouveau riche!” he murmured. “It48
