“What has he said to you—what has he done? He has not made love to you—child—surely.”
“I don’t know,” murmured Violante.
“Oh, I must have been mad—what have I been doing to let this go on?” cried Rosa, starting up and walking about in her agitation, while Violante cowered, frightened, into the great chair, but with a certain self-assertion in her heart, too.
“Now,” said Rosa, recovering prudence, and sitting down on the arm of the chair, “you see, I have not taken care of my pretty sister. Tell me all about it.”
“You are not angry with me, Rosa?”
“Angry, my little one,” said Rosa, while tears, rare in her eyes, fell on her cheeks—“no, only angry with myself. Now, tell me what it is; how long have you felt in this way? What has he said to you?”
“All, how can I tell? He looks at me—he gives me flowers—he speaks to my heart,” said Violante with downcast eyes, but lips that smiled and needed no sympathy in their satisfaction.
“Don’t be silly,” said poor Rosa, irritated both by the smile and the sentiment. “Is that all?”
“He told me of his home—he said we should be friends—he asked me for a rose, and kissed my hand for it—he said he thought it was Italian fashion.”
“Oh, Violante, why didn’t you tell me before?”