"Nino mio," I said, as we went along, "you really make me laugh."

"Which is to say--" He was humming a tune again, and was cross because
I interrupted him.

"You are in love. Do not deny it. You are already planning how you can
make the acquaintance of the foreign contessa. You are a fool. Go
home, and get Mariuccia to give you some syrup of tamarind to cool
your blood."

"Well? Now tell me, were you never in love with anyone yourself?" he
asked, by way of answer; and I could see the fierce look come into his
eyes in the dark as he said it.

"Altro,--that is why I laugh at you. When I was your age I had been in
love twenty times. But I never fell in love at first sight--and with a
doll; really a wax doll, you know, like the Madonna in the presepio
that they set up at the Ara Coeli, at Epiphany."

"A doll!" he cried. "Who is a doll, if you please?" We stopped at the
corner of the street to argue it out.

"Do you think she is really alive?" I asked, laughing. Nino disdained
to answer me, but he looked savagely from under the brim of his hat.
"Look here," I continued, "women like that are only made to be looked
at. They never love, for they have no hearts. It is lucky if they
have souls, like Christians."

"I will tell you what I think," said he stoutly; "she is an angel."