thought good."

"Oh-h-h," said Annunziata, a long-drawn _Oh_ of relief. "Then you didn't
steal it--she _gave_ it to you."

"Well," said John, "if casuistry like that can ease your conscience--if
you feel that you can conscientiously receive it--" And he allowed his
inflection to complete the sentence.

"Give it to me," said Annunziata, holding out her hands, and dancing up
and down in glee and in impatience.

"Nenni-dà," said John. "Not till after dinner. I'm not going to be a
party to the spoiling of a fair, young, healthy appetite."

Pain wrote itself upon Annunziata's brow. "Oh," she grieved, "must I
wait till after dinner?"

"Yes," said John.

For a breathing-space she struggled. "Would it be bad of me," she asked,
"if I begged for just a _little_ now?"

"Yes," said John, "bad and bootless. You'd find me as unyielding as
adamant."

"Ah, well," sighed Annunziata, a deep and tremulous sigh. "Then I will
wait."

And, like a true philosopher, she proceeded to occupy her mind with a