There was a rap on my door. I opened it, and there was Benevenuto. He
had on a black suit. It looked like the suits the poor French Canadians
dress their dead in. He had plastered his hair so sleekly that it shone
like a piece of black satin, and oh! he did smell of barber’s soap and
perfume. His big black eyes were shining and he was smiling all over his
face.
“Where is your mandolin?” I asked.
“I have called to see _you_,” he answered. “Me, I am not musician
to-night.” Then as he saw my evident disappointment, he said, “but if I
am not welcome for myself, I can go.”
I felt really sorry for him, as his smiling face had become so suddenly
mournful and stormy-looking. So I said:
“Oh, I’m really glad to see you,” and I tried to smile as if I were. He
came up to me with a kind of rush and said excitedly:
“Marion, I love-a you! I love-a you! I love-a you! Give me the smile
again. That smile is like music to me. I love-a you!”