“For whom, then, do you wish to keep the roses, Donna Maria?” he asked, half bitterly and ironically.
“I don’t know; I don’t know,” she replied, trembling.
“If you don’t give me one, to whom will you, Donna Maria?”
She let the roses fall and scatter on the table, all her face was disturbed with sudden pallor. Gianni Provana quietly took a rose which she had not given him—which he had gained in spite of her; but, instead of placing it in his buttonhole, he placed it with care in the inside pocket of his coat.
“Next to the heart,” he whispered.
A short, strident laugh was Maria’s only reply.
“How badly you laugh, Donna Maria!” he exclaimed, a little irritated.
“Like you,” she replied quietly.
“Come from behind the stall and let us take a walk together?” he asked.
His tone remained simple and disingenuous, but within there was a dull agitation, which the man restrained with difficulty.