All at once his hands shot out and clutched both of mine.
"You're not good man!" he shouted vehemently. "No—not only good—you're a great man! Caro mio—ah, I never make mistake—no!" And before I knew what he was doing, he had embraced me in Continental fashion and large tears stood in his eyes.
The cup of my torment was complete. A mad desire to get away possessed me—only to get away. I stirred to move but he held me resolutely.
"We will think it out, my friend," he announced with sober energy. "We will talk it over—work it out. I, too, am a man with a heart, caro mio. It is I who understand—Have I not lost my poor Giovanna—Gina's mother? If you two love each other—well—we must find—a way."
Hope bounded in my pulses as I noted that his enthusiasm was now tempered by thoughtfulness.
"No, Mr. Visconti," I murmured with painful firmness. "I have no right to love Miss Gina—and I wouldn't dream of telling her so, even if I did—I am not free—"
"You—you're not promesso—what d'you call it—engaged?"
"Oh, no, no! It is only my heart that is engaged—not my word—there is some one else—but it can never be anything—"
"But what does it mean?" he flashed, dark anger purpling his features and kindling the air like a torch. "What did I see! My girl in your arms—what was that!" His eyes now darted fiery anger and his arms were arrested in the midst of a violent gesture.
I shook my head slowly. His anger was infinitely more agreeable to me—like manna—after his parching enthusiasm.