"Stories!" said Margherita.
"I swear it's true! Why should I say what isn't true? You are the most beautiful, the gentlest, the sweetest of all girls. If you knew how I thought of you when my landlady's two girls in the first house flung themselves at me and at Battista! I felt as if they were some sort of plague struck creatures while you—you were a saint, soft and pure, and fresh, and lovely!"
"But I'm afraid I, too,—"
"That's quite different. Don't say such horrid things! You know I get vexed when you are cold. We are betrothed. Isn't it true? Aren't we going to marry each other? Tell me yes."
"Yes."
"Say that you love me."
"Yes."
"Don't say just Yes. Say it like this. I—love—thee."
"I—love—thee. If I didn't love you should I be here? Of course I love you! I can't express myself, but I do love you; probably more than you love me."
"It's not true. I love you most. But you do love me, yes I know it," he continued, becoming grave, "you who might aspire to anyone, you are so beautiful and so rich!"