“Love!” she exclaimed, with a light laugh. “Bah! How foolish! Love! It is only plebeians and fools who love. There is no such word in our vocabulary.”
“Yes, yes,” I said quickly. “I know the insurmountable barrier that lies between us, Santina. But do you intend to leave Italy—to leave me alone—now?”
“Of course. It is not my intention to return for several years; perhaps never. We have spent many pleasant hours together; but you have become infatuated, therefore we must part.”
“No!” I cried; “I cannot—I will not let you go! Only a week ago you confessed that you loved me. What have I done that you should treat me so?”
She made no immediate answer; and as she stood with bowed head and somewhat pale, thoughtful face, I wondered what mystery veiled and troubled her clear, resolute nature.
Placing my arm around her waist, I bent and kissed her lips; but she struggled to free herself.
“Dio!” she cried hoarsely. “Why have you come here, Gasparo? Think of my reputation—my honour! If any one found you here alone with me, and I in déshabillé.”
“Tell me, Santina, do you still love me?” I asked earnestly, looking into her eyes.
“I—I hardly know,” she replied, with a strange, preoccupied air.
“Why are you leaving so suddenly?”