“Felice—don't go! Don't go away!”
“We will talk about that afterwards,” he said, gently extricating himself from the clinging arms. “Tell me first what has upset you so. Has anything been frightening you?”
She silently shook her head.
“Have I done anything to hurt you?”
“No.” She put a hand up against his throat.
“What, then?”
“You will get killed,” she whispered at last. “I heard one of those men that come here say the other day that you will get into trouble—and when I ask you about it you laugh at me!”
“My dear child,” the Gadfly said, after a little pause of astonishment, “you have got some exaggerated notion into your head. Very likely I shall get killed some day—that is the natural consequence of being a revolutionist. But there is no reason to suppose I am g-g-going to get killed just now. I am running no more risk than other people.”
“Other people—what are other people to me? If you loved me you wouldn't go off this way and leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whether you're arrested, or dream you are dead whenever I go to sleep. You don't care as much for me as for that dog there!”
The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other end of the terrace. He was quite unprepared for such a scene as this and at a loss how to answer her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into a tangle that he would have hard work to undo.