He rose with an effort, and with something like a sigh.
'I must be going,' he said, standing beside the divan. 'Good-night.'
Zoë had looked up in surprise when he left his seat, and now her face fell.
'Already? Must you go already?' she asked.
'Yes. I have to keep an appointment. Good-night.'
'Good-night, Messer Carlo,' answered Zoë softly and a little sadly.
She had never before addressed him in that way, as an equal and a Venetian would have done, and the expression, with the tone in which it was uttered, arrested his attention and stopped him when he was in the act of turning away. He said nothing, but there was a question in his look.
'I am sorry that I made you angry,' she said, and she turned her face up to him with one of those half-pathetic, hesitating little smiles that ask forgiveness of a man and invariably get it, unless he is a brute.
'I am sorry that I let you see I was annoyed,' he answered simply.
'If I had not been so foolish, you would not go away so early!'