The pressure of his hand was insistent.
"Very well," she said faintly, "I will."
He sprang to his feet and clasped her in his arms, covering her face with kisses.
"Oh!" she cried struggling, "you must not! It is not right!"
"Are you not my fiancée, my little love?" he asked in a pained voice. "What hurt can my kisses do you? Oh, Ragna!"
He kissed her again, and this time she did not resist.
When he released her she was breathless and her head swam; she could feel her heart leaping in her bosom and she pressed her hands upon it to still its wild beating. Her face was white as marble and her eyes shone strangely as though illuminated by fires within. In that moment, Mirko really loved her; her confidence appealed to all that was best in him, so realizing that he would not trust himself further he made the move to go.
"It is late Anima mia, I must take you home now."
He encircled her waist with his arm under cover of her cloak and they walked slowly back through the dark streets to the Piazza Montecitorio, talking as they went. Or rather it was Mirko who talked and Ragna listened, held in thrall by the musical voice of her lover. It did not occur to her that to make love with such mæstria presupposes a large and varied experience.
He left her with a kiss under the gloomy portone, and she sped up the stairs, wondering how she should explain her absence in case of discovery. There was no need, however, for Rosa promptly answered her timid knocking, and at a sign from her followed her to her room.