“What you mean?” he said. “I shan’t go, Allaye. You come with me.”
“Ha!” she sniffed scornfully. “I shall go where I like.”
But slowly he shook his head.
“You’ll come, Allaye,” he said. “You come with me, with Ciccio.”
She shuddered at the soft, plaintive entreaty.
“How can I go with you? How can I depend on you at all?”
Again he shook his head. His eyes had a curious yellow fire, beseeching, plaintive, with a demon quality of yearning compulsion.
“Yes, you come with me, Allaye. You come with me, to Italy. You don’t go to that other man. He is too old, not healthy. You come with me to Italy. Why do you send a telegram?”
Alvina sat down and covered her face, trembling.
“I can’t! I can’t! I can’t!” she moaned. “I can’t do it.”