"Why, nothing!" Her face was as angelic as her name.
"I don't know what you mean or what you may have heard about me,
Miss dell'Angela, but I can tell you this, if you are interested.
When my wife died, I went to pieces. I admit it. I said a lot of
things I shouldn't have, and some of them may have reflected against
the Company. I'm not trying to deny that but, you understand, I was
upset at the time. I'm not upset now." I took a deep breath. "To me,
the Company is the savior of humanity. I don't want to sound like a
fanatic, but I am loyal to the Company, to the extent of putting it
ahead of my personal affairs, to the extent of doing whatever job the
Company assigns to me. And, if necessary, to the extent of dying for it
if I have to. Is that clear?"
Well, that was a conversation-stopper, of course. I hadn't meant to
get all wound up about it, but it hurt to find out that there had been
gossip. The dell'Angela girl merely said: "Quite clear."
We rode in silence for a while. She was staring out the window again,
and I didn't especially want to talk just then. Maybe I was too
sensitive. But there was no doubt in my mind that the Company was the
white hope of the world, and I didn't like being branded a traitor
because of what I'd said after Marianna died. I was, in a way, paying
the penalty for it--it had been made pretty clear to me that I was on
probation. That was enough.
As I said, she lived a long way from the Gran Reale. I had plenty of
time for my flare-up, and for brooding, and for getting over it.
But we never did get around to much idle conversation on that little
trip. By the time I had simmered down, I began to have disturbing
thoughts. It suddenly occurred to me that I was a man, and she was a
girl, and we were riding in a cab.
I don't know how else to say it. At one moment I was taking her home
from a dinner; and at the next, I was taking her home from a date.
Nothing had changed--except the way I looked at it.
* * * * *
All of a sudden, I began to feel as though I were fourteen years old
again. It had been quite a long time since I had had the duty of
escorting a beautiful girl--and by then I realized this was a really
_beautiful_ girl--home at the end of an evening. And I was faced with
the question that I had thought would never bother me again at least a
decade before. Should I kiss her good night?
It was a problem, and I thought about it, feeling a little foolish but
rather happy about it. But all my thinking came to nothing. She decided
for me.
The cab stopped in front of a white stucco wall. Like so many of the
better Italian homes, the wall enclosed a garden, and the house was in
the middle of the garden. It was an attractive enough place--Class A at
least, I thought--though it was hard to tell in the moonlight.