She hung over his chair. She took up his hand and kissed it.
“Forgive me! Forgive me!” she murmured, with tears.
Unmoved by this little scene, la Zia emptied her teacup, rose, and left the room; and they two—Vansittart and Fiordelisa—were alone.
“You know that I would not pain you for the world,” she sighed. “You have been so good to me, my true and only friend.”
“No, no, Si’ora; I know that you would not willingly recall that memory which is branded upon my heart and brain. I can never forget. Do not believe even that I wish to forget. I sinned; and I must suffer for my sin. My friendship for you and for your good aunt arose out of that sin. I want to atone to you as far as I can for that fatal act. You understand that, I am sure.”
“Yes, yes; I understand. But you like us, don’t you?” she pleaded. “You are really our friend?”
“I am really your friend. And I want to prove my friendship by settling an income upon you, in such a manner that you will not be dependent upon my forethought for the payment of that income. It will be paid to you as regularly as the quarter-day comes round. I am going to buy you an annuity, Lisa; that is to say, an income which will be paid to you till the end of your life; so that whether you make your fortune as a singer or not, you can never know extreme poverty.”
“But who will give me the money when quarter-day comes?”
“It will be sent to you from an office. You will have no trouble about it.”
“I should hate that. I would rather have the money from your hand. It is you who give it me—not the man at the office. I want to kiss my benefactor’s hand. You are my benefactor. That was one of the first words I taught myself after I came to this house. Bén-é-factor!” she repeated, with her Italian accent; “it is easier than most of your English words.”