'Don't go away—stay.'
'What is there for me to do here? Ought I to wait for your father to turn me out to-morrow? Because I stood that scene a little ago, must I stand another?'
'I did not do anything to you,' said she, wringing her hands to keep down her sorrow.
'Good-bye!' he said, and nothing else.
'Don't go away—don't go away!'
Two big tears she could not keep back rolled down her cheeks. He had refused to give in to her voice, beseeching pallor, and excitement, but he gave in to her tears. He was a hard man in his success, but a child's, a woman's tears made him forget everything. When she saw him come back and sit down, his good nature making him yield, she did not restrain her choking tears. She sank into her chair again, her face hid in her handkerchief, sobbing.
'Don't cry,' he muttered, feeling that it did her good, but that he could not bear it.
A good deal of time was needed before she could calm herself. She had kept in her feelings too much for the outburst to be otherwise than long and noisy. The June evening was very warm; the scirocco's breath depressed sickly nerves. The only sound was a skilfully played wailing mandoline in the distance up Pontecorvo Hill.
'Listen,' the doctor began, not harshly, but coldly, when he saw she had got quieter. 'I hope you will listen to me quietly. I am an intruder in your family. Don't interrupt me; I know what you would say. I cured you twice; but that is my work; you have no need to feel obliged to me. Don't protest; I know the limits of human feeling. I am an intruder, then. There is nothing in common between you and me; we are different kinds. It does not matter. I, who am not dreamy, seeing you are fading away, that you need the wide, healthy country and solitude, tried to get you away from here. If my dream has not come true, whose fault is it—yours or mine?'
'It is mine,' she said humbly.