“Yes.”
“For a week, or a month? But you need not answer me. Filippo, I should like some tea.”
“Of course,” he said eagerly. “Forgive me,” and he hurried away to order it.
When he returned his dark face was radiant. “Do you know that is the second time you have called me by my name? You said Filippo this morning. Ah, I heard you, and I have thought of it since.”
The girl hardened her heart. She realised—she had always realised that this man was dangerous. A fire consumed him. It was a fire that blazed up to destroy, no pleasant light and warmth upon the hearth of a good life, but women were apt to flutter, moth-like, into the flame of it nevertheless.
He sat down beside her and took her hand in his.
“I know I was violent this morning; I could not help myself. I am a Tor di Rocca. It would be so easy for you to make me happy—”
She listened quietly.
A waiter brought the tea and set it on a little table between them.
“You had coffee yesterday,” she said. “It seems years ago.”