It had been opened, clumsily retied with gray twine. Thrusting it into Chick’s hand he followed with a flood of rapid Italian. Once more a circle of interested onlookers threatened to engulf them.
Chick gave a hasty order, grasped Cynthia’s arm and thrust her down the steps, into the Luigi gondola. Then waved a wide gesture down the Grand Canal toward the lagoon beyond.
“Buono! ... Buono!” agreed Luigi, nodding vigorously like a porcelain mandarin. There came a faint cheer from the crowd on the quay and Cynthia recognized a few of their morning’s spectators. But the man with the galosh, the woman with the cabbage were not present. From the comfortable cushioned seat she watched palaces of kings and doges, princesses, great composers and poets glide past. This was heavenly, this was the way to see Venice, to see any place, with Chick’s hand in hers and not a care in the world.
Then she saw the little package in his other hand, glanced up inquiringly and caught the look in his eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, two beats. No nephew ever looked like that at a maiden aunt!
“Let’s,” said Chick, taking his hand out of hers, “let’s both undo the package. You do want to see what’s in it, don’t you, Cyn?”
Cynthia laughed. “Here I’ve been hustled and bustled over half of Venice, in jail and out again ...” she addressed the diminishing houses of candy pink, baby blue, as the gondola struck the wide lagoon and rocked slowly away from the town, “and he asks me, do I want to know what’s in it. Man alive, do you think I’ve got no curiosity?”
From behind them came a musical shout. Luigi warning off another gondola. Beyond him, Venice glowed pearl pink in the late light of afternoon, the long paddle made a soft ripple on the blue lagoon. Dark Italian eyes looked over their shoulders, whole heartedly, honestly as curious as Cynthia, and two heads, one brown, one blond bent close together.
Cynthia untied the knot, with slim fingers that were cold and loosened the rumpled white paper. A small box of blue stained leather beautifully tooled in gilt. She lifted the lid.
“Oh Chick ... oh you darling! Chick, is it really, really for me?”
On the third finger of her right hand she slipped it. Quaint old green gold, delicately lacy as the collar of a doge, held firmly in its heart a single pink pearl. Chick reached and took the hand in his, slipped off the ring, slid into his palm the little emerald she had worn all summer, and in its place substituted the other. It fitted as though it had been made for her. Perhaps it was.