Nobili was on his knees before her; every feature of his bright young face formed into an agony of entreaty.
There was a flash of triumph in Nera's black eyes as she bent them on Nobili, that chilled him to the soul. Kneeling before her, he feels it. He doubts her love, doubts all. She has wrought upon him until he is desperate.
"Rise, dear Nobili," Nera whispered softly, touching his lips with hers, but so slightly. "To-morrow—come again to-morrow. I can say nothing now." Her manner was constrained. She spoke in little sentences. "It is late. Supper is ready. My mother waiting. To-morrow." She pressed the hand he had laid imploringly upon her knee. She touched the curls upon his brow with her light finger-tips; but those fixed, despairing eyes beneath she dared not meet.
"Not one word?" urged Nobili, in a faltering voice. "Send me away without one word of hope? I shall struggle with horrible thoughts all night. O Nera, speak one word—but one!" He clasped her hands, and looked up into her face. He dared do no more. "Love me a little, Nera," he pleaded, and he laid her warm, full hand upon his throbbing heart.
Nera trembled. She rose hastily from her chair, and raised Nobili up also.
"I—I—" (she hesitated, and avoided his passionate glance)—"I have given you good advice. To-morrow I will tell you more about myself."
"To-morrow, Nera! Why not to-night?"
Spite of himself Nobili was shocked at her reserve. She was so self-possessed. He had flung his all upon the die.
"You have advised me," he answered, stung by her coldness. "You have convinced me, I shall obey you. Now I must go, unless you bid me stay."
Again his eyes pleaded with hers; again found no response. Nera held out her hand to him.