"I am very sorry," said she, with a smile. This gay manner of his had driven away her sad memories. It seemed quite natural to her that he should address her as "My little daughter."
"But where are the fogs? It is a paradise that I have reached—the air clear and soft, the gardens beautiful. This morning I said to myself, 'I will go early. Perhaps the little Natalushka will be going out for a walk; perhaps we will go together.' No, signorina," said he, with a mock-
heroic bow, "it was not with the intention of buying you toys. But was I not right? Do I not perceive by your costume that you were about to go out?"
"That is nothing, signore," said she. "It would be very strange if I could not give up my morning walk for an old friend of my father's."
"An contraire, you shall not give up your walk," said he, with great courtesy. "We will go together; and then you will tell me about your father."
She accepted this invitation without the slightest scruple. It did not occur to her—as it would naturally have occurred, to most English girls—that she would rather not go walking in Hyde Park with a person who looked remarkably like the leader of a German band.
But Calabressa had known her mother.
"Ah, signore," said she, when they had got into the outer air, "I shall be so grateful to you if you will tell me about my mother. My father will not speak of her; I dare not awaken his grief again; he must have suffered much. You will tell me about her."
"My little daughter, your father is wise. Why awaken old sorrows? You must not spoil your eyes with more crying."
And then he went on to speak of all sorts of things, in his rapid, interjectional fashion—of his escape from prison mostly—until he perceived that she was rather silent and sad.