She threw some gentle rebuke into her glance, and turned it upon him. He met it with that same amiable absence of emotion that was always in his look.
“Kate too short by itself?” he asked. “Aw righ’; make it Kate Ristofalo.”
“No,” said Mrs. Riley, averting and drooping her face.
“Take good care of you,” said the Italian; “you and Mike. Always be kind. Good care.”
Mrs. Riley turned with sudden fervor.
“Good cayre!—Mr. Ristofalo,” she exclaimed, lifting her free hand and touching her bosom with the points of her fingers, “ye don’t know the hairt of a woman, surr! No-o-o, surr! It’s love we wants! ‘The hairt as has trooly loved nivver furgits, but as trooly loves ahn to the tlose!’”
“Yes,” said the Italian; “yes,” nodding and ever smiling, “dass aw righ’.”
But she:—
“Ah! it’s no use fur you to be a-talkin’ an’ a-pallaverin’ to Kate Riley when ye don’t be lovin’ her, Mr. Ristofalo, an’ ye know ye don’t.”
A tear glistened in her eye.