“Where do you intend going when you leave here?” I asked.
“I have not the slightest idea. We have no fixed abode, and travel whither it suits my uncle—London, New York, Paris; it matters little where we go.”
“You have been in England; have you not?”
“Yes; and I hate it,” she replied, abruptly, at once turning the conversation into another channel. She appeared extremely reticent regarding her past, and by no amount of ingenuity could I obtain any further information.
When it grew chilly, we rose and walked along past the forts, and out upon the Spezzia road, where a refreshing breeze blew in from the sea.
In her soft white dress, with a bunch of crimson roses at her throat, I had never seen her looking so beautiful. I loved her madly, blindly, and longed to tell her so.
Yet how could I?
Such a proceeding would be absurd, for our acquaintance had been of so brief a duration that we scarcely knew anything of one another.