"Say no more!" he interrupted vehemently, tapping me with the back of his hand on the chest. "You are a fine, gooda young man!"
"Thanks!" I gasped, "but you don't understand. I am in no position to marry any woman at this time. I'm—"
"Hold on!" he flung me back into the chair with an exuberant force that would have made me laugh if my vitals had not been chilled by terror. "Is it that I do not know? Do I not know how your capital did go—pouf! like that? But all that I have—Gina has it. She will have enough," and he nodded his head with pregnant emphasis, "enough, my friend. And Gina's husband—he will be my son!" He struck his large chest a mighty blow and threw back his head with triumphant finality.
I attempted no more to rise. It was useless.
"Signor Visconti," I began huskily, "you do not understand me. I cannot marry anybody, ever. I have four children to bring up—educate—to be responsible for. The youngest of them is eight. I—you honor me greatly by your kindness—but marriage is not for me."
He stared in speechless stupefaction at me as though I had revealed some incredible horror to his eyes.
"Four children!" he whispered, with dilated eyes. "But who—but I thought you have never been married?"
"I have not," I replied with an intense relief that was like a restorative. Then, catching his meaning glance, I went on hastily; "They are my sister's orphans. I am responsible for them. They have no one else."
"Ah!" he drew in his breath with the sound of a syphon. "That is it, is it?"
"Yes," I murmured, rising, resolved to put an end to this ghastly episode. "Now, if you will excuse me—"