Gonzague smiled paternally. "Are you afraid of me?"
The girl shook her head dubiously, and there was suspicion in her dark eyes as she asked: "What do you want of me?"
Gonzague smiled more paternally than before. "I want you to love me," he said; and then, seeing that the gypsy lifted her brows, he continued, leisurely: "Do not misunderstand me. Women still are sometimes pleased to smile on me. I do not want such smiles from you, child. There is another fate for you. Are you content with your new life?"
Flora answered him with a weary tone in her voice and a weary look on her pretty face. "You have given me fine clothes and fine jewels. I ought to be content. But I miss my comrades and my wandering life."
Gonzague was still paternal as he explained: "You must forget your wandering life. Henceforward you are a great lady. Your father was a duke."
Flora gave a little gasp, and questioned: "Is my father dead?"
Gonzague allowed his chin to fall upon his breast and an expression of deep gloom to overshadow his face. "Yes," he said, and his voice was as a requiem to buried friendship.
Flora’s heart was touched by this display of friendship. "And my mother?" she asked.
Gonzague’s face lightened. "Your mother lives."
Flora questioned again, this time very timorously: "Will she love me?"