But suddenly she bit her lips, as she saw Vittorio's contracted face become disturbed with pallor, as if under an access of anger and grief.
"Oh, thanks!" he said, with deep irony. "One thing only John Clarke could do for me, and that I have renounced. Must I come to America like a wretched seeker after work, like an emigrant? Miss Mabel, we shall separate without your understanding me."
"Perhaps," she replied humbly, "it has not been vouchsafed me to understand you."
"Would you like me to be there, Miss Mabel, when you marry the American, some American, of your race and country?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile.
"Oh, this will only happen much later," she murmured, "very much later."
"But it will happen, Miss Mabel," he insisted bitterly.
"I believe so," she said simply; "not now, not for a year. Even later."
"Why should you wait, miss?" he asked sadly, with ever greater sarcasm.
"To forget you, dear," she replied frankly.