“Yes,” she cried hoarsely, “yes, Nino, I am an adventuress. Now that my enemies have exposed me, concealment is no longer possible. I deceived you, but with an honest purpose in view. My name, I well know, is synonymous with all that is vicious. I am known as The Funaro—the extravagant woman whose lovers are legion, and of whom stories of reckless waste and ingenious fraud are told by the jeunesse dorée in every city in Italy. Ask of any of the smart young men who drink at the Gambrinus at Milan, at Genoa, at Rome, or at Florence, and they will relate stories by the hour of my wild, adventurous life, of my loves and my hatreds, of my gaiety and my sorrow. Yes, I, alas I know it all. I have the reputation of being the gayest woman in all gay Italy; and yet—and yet,” she added in a soft voice, “I love you, Nino.”
“No!” he cried, drawing from her with repugnance, as if in fear that her hands should touch him; “it is not possible that we can exchange words of affection after this vile deceit. All is now plain why the police of Livorno ordered you to leave the city; why Hutchinson, the Consul, urged me to part from you; why, when we drove together in those sun-baked streets, every one turned to look at you. They knew you!” he cried. “They knew you—and they pitied me!”
She shrank at these cruel, bitter words as if he had dealt her a blow. From head to foot she trembled as, with an effort, she took a few uneven steps towards him.
“You denounce me!” she cried in a low tone. “You, the man I love, declare that I am base, vile, and heartless. Well, if you wish, I will admit all the charges you thus level against me. Only one will I refute. You say that I am an adventuress; you imply that I have never loved you.”
“Certainly,” he cried. “I have been your dupe. You led me to believe in your innocence, while all the time the papers are commenting upon your adventures, and printing scandals anent your past. Because I did not know your language well, and because I seldom read an Italian newspaper, you were bold enough to believe that I should remain in utter ignorance. But I have discovered the extent of your perfidy. I know now, that in dealing with you, I’m dealing with one whose shrewdness and cunning are notorious throughout the whole of Italy.”
“Then you have no further love for me, Nino?” she asked blankly, after a brief space.
“Love! No, I hate you!” he cried. “You led me to believe in your uprightness and honesty, yet I find that you, of all women in Italy, are the least desirable, as an acquaintance—the least possible as a wife!”
“You hate me?” she gasped hoarsely. “You—Nino!—hate me?”
“Yes,” he cried, his hands clenched in excitement, “I hate you!”
“Then why have you come here?” she asked. “Even if you had heard my voice, you need not have entered this room to taunt me.”