“Don’t ask,” she answered. “I cannot tell you.”
The haggard, aquiline face changed and hardened. “Someone has been rude to you, or has frightened you.”
“No.” She moved away to escape the inquisition of his eyes. “Some of these plants want water. I shall fetch some.” She was going in when he called to her.
“Olive,” he said haltingly. “Perhaps we ought to have told you before. My mother heard of some people who want an English governess from a friend of hers who is a music mistress in Florence. They are rich and would pay well, and we should have told you when we heard of it, three days ago, but I could not bear the thought of your leaving Siena while—while I am still here. But if those people in the Piazza Tolomei are unkind—”
She came back then and sat down beside him. “I do not want to leave Siena,” she said gently.
“Thank you,” he answered, and added: “It will not be for long. Why should I pretend to you?” he went on. “I have suffered, but now I have no pain at all, only I am very weak. Look!”
He held up his hand; it was yellowish white and so thin as to be almost transparent, and it seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because it was not very small or very finely made. It held the broken promise of power, she thought sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched palm gently as though it were a half-frozen bird that she would bring to life again.
He closed his eyes, smiling. “Ah, your little fingers are soft and warm.”
“You were at the theatre last night,” he said presently. “Fausto saw you. How do you like your cousin’s fidanzato?”