THE GOLDEN BOWL
"It's impossible?"
"It's impossible." And he took up one of the brooches.
She had another pause, while the shopman only waited. "If I were to accept from you one of these charming little ornaments as you suggest, what should I do with it?"
He was perhaps at last a little irritated; he even—as if he might understand—looked vaguely across at their host. "Wear it, per Bacco!"
"Where then, please? Under my clothes?"
"Wherever you like. But it isn't then, if you will," he added, "worth talking about."
"It's only worth talking about, mio caro," she smiled, "from your having begun it. My question is only reasonable—so that your idea may stand or fall by your answer to it. If I should pin one of these things on for you would it be, to your mind, that I might go home and show it to Maggie as your present?"
They had had between them often in talk the refrain, jocosely, descriptively applied, of "old-Roman." It had been, as a pleasantry, in the other time, his explanation to her of everything; but nothing truly had even seemed so old-Roman as the shrug in which he now indulged. "Why in the world not?"
"Because—on our basis—it would be impossible to give her an account of the pretext."
"The pretext—?" He wondered.
"The occasion. This ramble that we shall have had together and that we're not to speak of."
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