"Then you read my pocket-book?" she exclaimed, stopping, confused and hurt.
"Why, yes! Have I done wrong, Miss Temple?"
She bent her head; her mouth became serious and almost severe, and she hurried her step.
"Have I really done so wrong, Miss Temple?" he asked, this time with genuine anxiety.
She shook her head without replying; her gentle face had already become sweet again.
"Anyone would have read that pocket-book, Miss Temple," he added, quite sadly.
"Not an Englishman, Signor," she said in a low voice.
"That is true, not an Englishman; but an Italian, yes," he replied. "Our fantasy is as ardent as our hearts. You must understand us to excuse us, Miss Temple."
"It doesn't matter, Signor," she replied seriously, with a little smile of indulgence. "I know Italy, but not Italians. If they are as ardent as you say, it no longer matters having read my pocket-book, Signor."
"And you will pardon an Italian who confesses his fault, and is very sorry for it?" he asked in that penetrating tone of his, where always there seemed to be deep emotion.