Gina could not possibly know how pathetic that sounded to me. The curious savagery of children toward those alien of race, I reflected, is one of the last survivals of the tribal state of mankind. The somewhat overpowering scent she used struck me as a survival also, though I could not remember of what. "There is my cousin, Jennie—her name is really Gemma"—the girl warmed to her story—"she tried to be American, too, but she gave it up. When I went to finishing school in Darien, she was already married. Four years she’s been married and has three children. Now what’s the use of that? She can’t have a good time now! Babies—babies—babies!—she hardly ever goes out. And her husband’s quite well off, too. He’s a contractor. But he’s an Italian—and thinks that’s the right way for a girl to live. Uh-h!" and she shuddered slightly. "I’m going to marry an American!" A fierce light of resolution leaped to her liquid dark eyes and I own I felt terrified. "But—but aren’t you young to think of marriage?" I murmured lamely. "Young!" repeated Gina in surprise. "I’ve been thinking about the kind of man I’m going to marry since I was thirteen years old!" Obviously that was one subject she had given mature reflection. "Haven’t you?" she demanded. "No," I laughed, "not as young as that." "Do you like Italian girls?" she leaned toward me abruptly, wistfully. "Yes, indeed!" I answered her, laughing. "There is Dante’s Beatrice—and Petrarch’s Laura—and even Raphael’s Fornarina must have been—" "Oh, I don’t mean those," she cried, flushing excitedly. "I mean Italian-American girls—I love American men! The man I’m going to marry is—something like you." I like simplicity, and disingenuousness in the young—or in the old, for that matter—but her attitude was now so—so unconventional, with her large ankle rocking to and fro and her bosom, as she leaned forward, almost touching my shirt front—that I feared her father might be displeased were he to enter the room suddenly. The scent, moreover, was clouding my wits. With my hand to my forehead I rose ponderously. "Let me see—" I mused with heavy facetiousness, as though cogitating a deep problem, "do I like them?" I walked a step or two and faced her. "You are the only one I know—and I certainly like you," I added mildly. She uncoiled herself, rose up swiftly and took a step in my direction. On a sudden she stumbled, gave a little cry and pitched forward, so that I barely had time to catch her. "Did you turn your ankle?" "No—yes," she gasped and lay for a moment in my arms breathing heavily, her bosom pressing against mine. "Let me lead you—" I began. "It’s all right," she whispered thickly. "Just let me rest a minute." And then that astonishing girl suddenly lifted up her hand, passed it lightly over my head and murmured that she loved the color of my hair!