“No, she wasn't even slim when I was a girl,” said Agnes. “But, my dear, you must remember that a tenor is a tenor.”
“Somebody once said that a tenor was a malady,” said Clare. “I do wish that this particular complaint had remained in Milan. Heavens! Why should I be troubled with him just when I need to give all my thoughts to my work? He is sure to come back to-morrow, and this time he will ring the bell.”
“You can scarcely refuse to see him,” said Agnes. “But are you really certain of yourself? Are you sure that you have no tender regard for him?”
“I think I am pretty sure,” replied the girl. “I never was in the least moved by his sighs and his prayers—I was only moved to laughter—when he wasn't near, of course. If I had laughed when he was present he would have killed either me or himself.”
“The only way by which a girl can be certain that she does not love one man is to be certain that she loves another,” said Agnes. “I wonder if Signor Rodani has a rival?”
She glanced at Clare's face: it was blazing. The laugh she gave was a very uneasy one. Agnes became interested. Seeing these signs she rose from her chair, and went across the room to the girl, laying her hands on her shoulders, and looking searchingly down into her face. Clare, however, declined to meet her gaze. She only glanced up for a second. Then she turned to one side and laid a hand on the keys of the piano, pressing them down so gently as to produce no sound.
Agnes laughed as she raised her hands from the girl's shoulders.
“I am answered,” she said. “You have told me all that your heart has to tell. I will ask you nothing more. Oh, I wondered how it was possible for so sweet a girl as you to escape.”
Clare sprang to her feet and threw her arms about the neck of her friend, hiding her roseate face on her shoulder.
“I'm afraid that you have guessed too much,” she whispered. “I did not mean to confess anything—I have not even confessed to myself; but you took me so by surprise. Please do not say anything about my foolishness—it really is foolishness. You will let my secret remain a secret—oh, you must, my dear Agnes; I tell you truly when I say that it was a secret even to myself, until your question surprised me, so that I could not help—But I have told you nothing—you will assume that I have told you nothing?”