She was silent, save for a deep sigh that stirred her bosom under its folded lace and made her jewels sparkle like sunbeams on the sea.
"If I lose you now, having known and loved you," he went on—"I lose my art. Not that this would matter—"
Her voice trembled on the air.
"It would matter a great deal"—she said, softly—"to the world!"
"The world!" he echoed—"What need I care for it? Nothing seems of value to me where you are not—I am nerveless, senseless, hopeless without you. My inspiration—such as it is—comes from you—"
She moved restlessly—her face was turned slightly away so that I could not see it.
"My inspiration comes from you,"—he repeated—"The tender look of your eyes fills me with dreams which might—I do not say would—realise themselves in a life's renown—but all this is perhaps nothing to you. What, after all, can I offer you? Nothing but love! And here in Florence you could command more lovers than there are days in the week, did you choose—but people say you are untouchable by love even at its best. Now I—"
Here he stopped abruptly and laid down his brush, looking full at her.
"I," he continued—"love you at neither best nor worst, but simply and entirely with all of myself—all that a man can be in passionate heart, soul and body!"
(How the words rang out! I could have sworn they were spoken close beside me and not by dream-voices in a dream!)