“Some one,” answered Don Ippolito, with tears in his eyes, “has already been very good to me. I thought it was you, but I will call it God!”
“Hush! You mustn’t say such things. But you must go, now. Take time to think, but not too much time. Only,—be true to yourself.”
They rose, and she laid her hand on his arm with an instinctive gesture of appeal. He stood bewildered. Then, “Thanks, madamigella, thanks!” he said, and caught her fragrant hand to his lips. He loosed it and lifted both his arms by a blind impulse in which he arrested himself with a burning blush, and turned away. He did not take leave of her with his wonted formalities, but hurried abruptly toward the gate.
A panic seemed to seize her as she saw him open it. She ran after him. “Don Ippolito, Don Ippolito,” she said, coming up to him; and stammered and faltered. “I don’t know; I am frightened. You must do nothing from me; I cannot let you; I’m not fit to advise you. It must be wholly from your own conscience. Oh no, don’t look so! I will be your friend, whatever happens. But if what you think of doing has seemed so terrible to you, perhaps it is more terrible than I can understand. If it is the only way, it is right. But is there no other? What I mean is, have you no one to talk all this over with? I mean, can’t you speak of it to—to Mr. Ferris? He is so true and honest and just.”
“I was going to him,” said Don Ippolito, with a dim trouble in his face.
“Oh, I am so glad of that! Remember, I don’t take anything back. No matter what happens, I will be your friend. But he will tell you just what to do.”
Don Ippolito bowed and opened the gate.
Florida went back to her mother, who asked her, “What in the world have you and Don Ippolito been talking about so earnestly? What makes you so pale and out of breath?”
“I have been wanting to tell you, mother,” said Florida. She drew her chair in front of the elder lady, and sat down.