"But," he said, "I think of you always!" Her face did not change; its even quiet was a challenge and an exasperation. "Signorina, what can I do? This accursed war if it were not for that you would let me speak and at least you would listen. But now."
He broke off with a gesture of helpless anger. She did not alter the grave character of her regard.
"What is it that you wish to say to me?" she asked. "You see that I am listening."
Her very calm, the slender erectness of her body, her fearless and serious gaze, were a goad to him.
"Listening!" he cried. He choked down an impulse to be noisy. "Well then, listen! Signorina signorina, I, I am not one of those. That man who hanged himself, I would have prevented him and saved him. You heard me give the orders that he was to be watched and fed; fed, signorina! It was another who took the guards away and left him to himself."
"That," she said, "I knew."
"Ah!" He came yet closer. "You knew. Then."
He tried to take her hand. The impulse to touch her was irresistible; it was a famine in his being. Without stepping back, without, a movement of retreat or a change of countenance, she put her hands behind her back.
"Signorina!" He was close to her now; the heat of his face beat upon the ice of hers. "Oh! This I can't! Give me at least your hand. Signorina."
Her voice was as level, as calm, as quiet, and yet as loud with allurement as ever.