“Yes.”
“Ah! Get out wid ye, Raphael Ristofalo,—to be telling me that for the trooth!”
At one such time she was about to give him a second push, but he took the hand in his, and quietly kept it to the end of his story.
He lingered late that evening, but at length took his hat from under his chair, rose, and extended his hand.
“Man alive!” she cried, “that’s my hand, sur, I’d have ye to know. Begahn wid ye! Lookut heere! What’s the reason ye make it so long atween yer visits, eh? Tell me that. Ah—ah—ye’ve no need fur to tell me, Mr. Ristofalo! Ah—now don’t tell a lie!”
“Too busy. Come all time—wasn’t too busy.”
“Ha, ha! Yes, yes; ye’re too busy. Of coorse ye’re too busy. Oh, yes! ye air too busy—a-courtin’ thim I-talian froot gerls around the Frinch Mairket. Ah! I’ll bet two bits ye’re a bouncer! Ah, don’t tell me. I know ye, ye villain! Some o’ thim’s a-waitin’ fur ye now, ha, ha! Go! And don’t ye nivver come back heere anny more. D’ye mind?”
“Aw righ’.” The Italian took her hand for the third time and held it, standing in his simple square way before her and wearing his gentle smile as he looked her in the eye. “Good-by, Kate.”
Her eye quailed. Her hand pulled a little helplessly and in a meek voice she said:—
“That’s not right for you to do me that a-way, Mr. Ristofalo. I’ve got a handle to my name, sur.”