'I don't remember who the Signore may be, Lucia; but you know who he is. I'm a very old woman now, sir; very old. I don't rightly remember how many years 'tis now that I've been living; but I worked for forty year at the marble works, I did; forty year picking over the rags to pack the marble.'
'There, nonna, come and sit in your own chair by the fire; that's what you like best,' said Lucia, glancing half guiltily at Italia.
The girl did not notice her. She had silently given her hand to Dino as she came in. They stood so for an instant without speaking; then she slowly lifted up her dark eyes. There was no young smile in them now, and her dear pale face had grown rigid and strained. She looked as if all the gladness had been killed within her. Only her voice had not changed; its full clear ring sounded like a mockery now after meeting that look of infinite misery in her eyes.
'I wanted to say good-bye, Dino.'
'Yes.'
'And I wanted to ask you, when you go to Rome, could not little Palmira go with you? Will you take her, Dino? Please take her.'
'Palmira? take that child? But, dear Italia, indeed it would be quite impossible!'
He was surprised into speaking very abruptly.
'Would it? I did not know. But I wish you would,' Italia murmured, looking down at her hands. She added hurriedly, and hardly moving her lips: 'If any one were watching your movements; if they suspected you of anything; it would be safer to have the child.'
'But, dear, I could not take her. It is impossible. Why, for one thing, I have no money. What could I do with the child in Rome?' Dino urged, still speaking with the vehemence of surprise.