Olive looked away from him. “How still the night is,” she said. “The nightingales are singing in the woods below, Astorre. Do you hear them?”
“I am not deaf,” he answered in a muffled voice, “I hear them. Will you hear me?”
Watching her closely he saw that she shrank from him. “Do not be afraid,” he said gruffly. “I am not going to be a fool. No man on earth is worth your tears. That is all I wanted to say.”
“Ah, child, you are young for all your wisdom. I was not sorry for him but for myself.”
“Liar!” he cried petulantly, and then caught at her hand. “Forgive me! Come now and read me a sonnet of your Keats and then translate it to me.”
Obediently she stooped to pick up the book. The flame of the little lamp on the table at his side burned steadily.
He lay with closed eyes and lips that moved, repeating the words after her. “It is very good to listen to your voice while you are here with me alone under the stars,” he said presently. “Tell me, does this man love you?”
She was silent.
“Does he love you?”
“I think he did, but perhaps he has forgotten me now.”