The hard, hot eyes filled with tears. He tried to drag his hand away, but the girl held it fast.
“You are kind and good,” he said presently in a changed voice. “I am sorry if I did you any harm with the Lorenzoni, but the woman told me she meant to send you away in any case because of the Marchese.”
Then, as he felt the clasp of her fingers loosening about his wrist, “Don’t let go,” he said quickly. “Is he really going to take you to Monte Carlo with him?”
“Does his wife say so? Do you believe it?”
He answered deliberately. “No, not now. But you cannot go on living like this.”
“No.”
He was right. She could not go on. Her little store of coppers was dwindling fast, so fast that the beggars at the church doors would soon be richer than she was. And she was tired of her straits, tired of coarse food and a bare lodging, and of the harsh, clamorous life of the streets. The yoke of poverty was very heavy.
Filippo drew a little nearer to her. “I could make you love me.”
“Never.”
He made no answer in words but he caught her to him. She lay for a moment close in his arms, her heart beating on his, before she cried to him to let her go.