'Why, these women, true, whom we hold so delicate—coarser feeders than ourselves—their tastes a fable. There, you're right; I've no right to talk.'
'Not yet.'
'Then, you're wrong. We've parted, I and Beatrice.'
'Carlo!'
'Didst think I 'd risk a quarrel with my saint on so small a matter?'
'Carlo!'
He flew upon the great creature and hugged him.
'My dear, my love! O, I went on so! Why did you let me? O, you give me hope again!'
'There,' growled the honest fellow, still a little sulkily. ''Twas to please myself, not you.'
'Not me!'