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Updated: May 22, 2025
She started on page number eleven of her letter, dipping her pen deep into the ink-stand and giving such a particular flourish to her right arm, as to nearly upset the bouquet of flowers at her side. It was Bero's gift. Norman Mann put out his hand to save it. His fingers fell in among the soft flowers and touched something stiff. It felt like a little roll of paper.
There was a rose on top and a fringe of maiden's hair at the edge, and the bouquet was flung from Bero's own hand up at the side window on the quiet Jesu e Maria, when everyone else but Mae was out on the Corso balcony. "It is dreadful to grow old," said Mae, breaking silence, as the carriage clattered over the stony streets. "My dear," expostulated Edith, "you surely don't call yourself old.
Mae stood an instant so still that the heavy breaths of the two men were distinctly audible, the passionate boundings of Bero's pulse, the long, deep throbs of Norman's heart. The officer stepped toward her. Norman stood unmoved. The Italian's eye wandered restlessly, his hand fell to his sword. Norman's arms were folded, and his face set. Mae looked at one, then at the other, perplexedly.
Then they silently turned to go. Norman Mann touched Mae on the shoulder. He handed her a bunch of Carnival flowers. They were Bero's, but she flung them unhesitatingly into the street, leaning far out to watch the singers catch them and separate them in the moonlight.
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