“And you ask me to believe that he did all this for friendship—mere friendship—he, an English gentleman, for an Italian peasant?”
“I don’t ask you to believe anything, and I don’t care what you believe. He is all the world to me. You are nothing—less than nothing!” cried Lisa, passionately. “I hate you. If it had not been for you he would have married me, perhaps. Who knows?”
“You think he would have married you! And yet he was only your friend, you say.”
“He was only my friend.”
“He brought you and your aunt from Italy and set you up in London; and yet he was only your friend.”
“He did not bring us from Italy. We came to London of our own accord. He was only my friend. He was never any more than my friend. If he had been I would not disown him. I love him too well to be ashamed.”
“You own that you love him?”
“Yes, I am not ashamed of my love. There are people somewhere who worship the sun. I am no more ashamed than they are. I told him of my love on my knees in this room, where you are sitting. I knelt at his feet and asked him to give me heart for heart. I thought then that he would hardly have been so kind unless he loved me. But he told me that he loved an English girl, and that she was to be his wife. There was no hope for me. I wanted to kill myself, but he stopped me with his strong arms. Yes, for just one moment I was in his arms! Only one moment, and then he flung me from him as if I were dirt.”
“He must have been very chivalrous to do so much for friendship,” said Eve, shaken, but not convinced.
The woman spoke with the accents of truth; but Eve remembered that she was an actress, trained in the art of simulated passion. No doubt it was easy for an actress to lie like truth.