“No, Miss Impudence,” I said, “you’re wrong. I wish sometimes my heart were safe in bed. You and I have been good friends. You came to me at a time when I most needed you. You never guessed the good you were doing. If this hadn’t happened, I would never have told you. But when I heard something said about you, which no girl would like to have said unless it were true, I thought it was time I should be going. You’ve been so good to me that I couldn’t return your good with evil.” “But, my dear, I daresay I’ve flirted with half-a-hundred men. It’s very nice of you to think I haven’t, and to be so careful of me. But really it doesn’t matter what anybody says. I don’t want you to run away because of that, just when we were having such a good time together.” “You won’t let me be serious,” I protested. “Now I want you to imagine for a minute that I’m old, and inoffensive, and have white hair.” “Oh, yes, and about seventy.” “About seventy-five I should say--I’ve known some pretty lively men of seventy.” “All right. About seventy-five. I’m imagining.” “My dear girl, you’re twenty-four or thereabouts, and you’re extremely beautiful. No man can look at you without being fascinated. I’ve often wanted to kiss you myself.” “Then why didn’t you do it?” “Fiesole, you’re not playing the game,” I said sternly. “Please go on imagining.” “I’m imagining.” “As I was saying, you’re extremely fascinating. Everything’s in your favor for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.” “What’s that?” “You have no parents. Now parents are a kind of passport. Seeing that you haven’t any, you’ve got to be more circumspect than other girls. It has come to my ears that for the past two months you’ve been seen every day with one young gentleman. People are beginning to talk about it. Since you don’t intend to marry him, you ought to drop him until you are married.” “Who says I don’t intend to marry him?” She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to me that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back. I heard men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden streamer, fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing _Mr. Dooley_. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity. Her hands trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the genuineness of her playacting. I hurried on. “But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He’s pledged to another woman.” Her hands fell away. When she spoke it was gravely and with effort. “You didn’t tell me. You said you weren’t engaged when I asked you.” “Neither am I, nor likely to be.” “Why not?” “She’s married.” The silence was broken by her taking my hand. She took it with a sudden gesture and, bowing her head, kissed it. “Poor Dante,” she whispered.