"There is one for me; there is one for my old mother. I will say to her, 'Do you remember the young Hungarian lady who came to see you at Spezia? Put on your spectacles now, and see whether that is not the same young lady. Ah, good old mother; can you see no better than that?—that is not Natalie Berezolyi at all; that is her daughter, who lives in England. But she has not got the English way; she is not content when she herself is comfortable; she thinks of others;
she has an ear for voices afar off.' That is what I shall say to the old mother."
He put the photographs in his pocket.
"In the mean time, my little daughter," said he, "now that our pressing business is over, one may speak at leisure: and what of you, now? My sight is not very good; but even my eyes can see that you are not looking cheerful enough. You are troubled, Natalushka, or you would not have forgotten to thank me for giving you the only treasure I have in the world."
The girl's pale face flushed, and she said, quickly,
"There are some things that are not to be expressed in words, Signor Calabressa. I cannot tell you what I think of your kindness to me."
"Silence! do you not understand my joking? Eh, bien; let us understand each other. Your father has spoken to me—a little, not much. He would rather have an end to the love affair, n'est ce pas?"
"There are some other things that are not to be spoken of," the girl said, in a low voice, but somewhat proudly.
"Natalushka, I will not have you answer me like that. It is not right. If you knew all my history, perhaps you would understand why I ask you questions—why I interfere—why you think me impertinent—"
"Oh no, signore; how can I think that?"