"Later," resumed Miss Ford, "you began to reply less frequently, and more curtly. At last you spoke no more of your journey to England nor of Lilian's to Italy."
"I spoke no more of it," he consented, with bowed head.
"Finally you ceased to write to Lilian. It is three months since you have written to her."
"It is three months," he said, like a sorrowful echo.
Miss May Ford made her inquiry with perfect composure and courtesy, without any expression manifesting itself on her face, without any expression passing into her voice. Only she kept her eyes on those of Lucio's, her limpid, proud English eyes, which spoke truth of soul and sought it in the sad, furtive eyes of Lucio Sabini.
"Then," resumed the Englishwoman, "as my young friend had no reply to her letters, and as I was here in Florence, she begged me to come and find you and to ask you for this reply."
"Have you come on purpose?" he asked disconsolately. "Did you make the journey on purpose?"
"Oh, no!" replied Miss Ford at once, punctiliously. "Not on purpose! I am here for my pleasure, and my friend sent me to you for an answer."
"But what answer? Whatever answer can I give Lilian Temple, Miss Ford?" the man cried, in great agitation.