“I hate you!” she said, “I hate you! And if you marry me I will kill you.”
“Signorina!” ejaculated the astonished manager.
“Violante, Violante!” cried Rosa.
“I hate, you!” she repeated, and then she threw herself on her knees.
“Father, father, father, kill me, kill me first.”
“Ungrateful, wicked child, you are driving a dagger into my breast!” cried Signor Mattei.
“I am deceived, I am deceived, but I will have my rival’s blood!” exclaimed Vasari.
“Signor Vasari, you are treading on that cross and spoiling it,” said Rosa. “Violante, for shame! You don’t know what you say.”
“I do know,” said Violante; but the quick reaction was coming, and she let Rosa lift her up and cowered into her arms, trembling and shivering. Her defiance was over, and had come, like the actions of most cowards, five minutes too late.
“Signor Vasari,” said Rosa, “I think you had better leave us and—and—come again when my sister is more herself. I will pick up the pearls, and—and, father, isn’t that best?”