Page:Dorothy Canfield - Rough-hewn.djvu/429

 angle that would bring the edge deep into his own flesh. He felt it cut deep and bleed. He dared not look at her. He wished to God he had gone on straight to Naples.

Somehow he was looking at her. Her face was deeply flushed. She looked as though he had struck her in the face. Well, now it was certainly all over. He might as well turn around and walk away and never look at her again.

He said blunderingly, in a trembling voice, "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to say that. It's no business of mine. I'm awfully ashamed of myself. Please forget it. What do you care what I think? I'm nobody, nobody at all."

"Why did you say that?" she asked him in a low voice, with a driving intensity of accent, as though more than anything else she must have an answer from him.

"Well, you asked me," he said in abject misery, aware of the hideous, flat futility of such an answer. If only he were an expansive Italian now, he could think of some way openly to abase himself, instead of standing there callously and dully. "Oh, please don't think or it again," he implored her, wishing he could get down on his knees to beg her pardon.

She drew a long breath and put her hand to her heart. "It's the first time anybody ever told the truth to me, you see," she said faintly, with a strange accent. "I … I'll like it … I think … when I can get my breath."

To his amazement he saw that she was trying bravely to smile at him.

To his greater amazement he snatched up both her hands and carried them roughly and passionately to his lips.