“And now let us come back to this Count of Amalfi, who is he? where is he?”
“I have told you already I do not know.”
“There was a time, madam, you would have required no second intimation that it was your duty to find out.”
“Ah, I remember those words but too well,” cried she, bitterly. “Finding out was my task for many a year.”
“Well, madam, it was an exercise that might have put a fine edge on your understanding, but, like some other advantages of your station, it slipped by you without profit. I am generous, madam, and I forbear to say more. Tell me of these people here all that you know of them, for they are my more immediate interest at present.”
“I will tell you everything, on the simple condition that you never speak to me nor of me again. Promise me but this, Miles M'Caskey, and I swear to you I will conceal nothing that I know of them.”
“You make hard terms, madam,” said he, with a mock courtesy. “It is no small privation to be denied the pleasure of your agreeable presence, but I comply.”
“And this shall be our last meeting?” asked she, with a look of imploring meaning.
“Alas, madam, if it must be!”
“Take care,” cried she, suddenly; “you once by your mockery drove me to—”