“Olive, do you know that they say strange things about the Odalisque? I am afraid there will be trouble if her Lucchese hears—”
“I do not care to hear that nickname,” she said coldly. “It is impertinent and absurd.”
“Oh, do not let go of my hand,” he implored. “Keep on stroking it. I love it! I love it! If I were a cat you would hear me purring. Tell me about England and Shakespeare and Shelley. Anything. I will be good.”
“I—I have not brought the book I promised you. I would have fetched it on my way here, but—but I had not the key. I am sorry, nino. Yes, let us talk of nice things.”
She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to be herself again, and he kept his fever-bright eyes on her, watching her as in the old days men may have watched the stars as they waited for the dawn that was to see them pass by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.
Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would come out to them, and she would stay beside her son while Olive went to put on her hat, and then they would say “Addio” and leave him. And perhaps he would indeed go to God, or to some place where he would see the dear ones no more. The boy’s beautiful lips were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened and dilated painfully.
“Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so. Oh, I will not go to the Palio. I will stay with you.”
“No, you must go, and to-morrow you can tell me all about it. But will you kiss me now? Do.”
“You need not ask twice, dear Astorre,” she whispered, as she leant over him and touched his forehead with her lips.
“Ma che!” he said ungratefully. “That’s nothing. Kiss me properly and at once.”