“Yes, yes, mio adorato,” she hastened to reassure him. “You are good and kind and generous, and I love you. Only—only I fear the future. I fear you—I fear myself.”
“Why do you fear me, little one?” he asked. “Surely I’m not so monstrous—eh?”
The hand he held trembled.
“I distrust the future—because I know the fate cruel and terrible—which, sooner or later, must befall me,” she exclaimed, with heart-sinking.
“You steadily decline to tell me anything,” he said. “If you would only confide in me, we might together find some means to combat this mysterious catastrophe.”
“I cannot! I dare not!”
“But you must!” he cried. “You shall!”
“I refuse?” she answered fiercely.
“You shall not suffer this constant terror merely because of a foolish determination to preserve your secret. After all, I suppose it is only some curious and unfounded dread which holds you awe-stricken, when you could afford to laugh it all to scorn.”
“You will never wring confession from me, Nino—never!”