“I have come to call upon the Doctor,” he answered.
“Eleven o’clock at night is a curious hour at which to call upon a friend,” she observed. “Your business with him must be very pressing.”
“It is—it is,” he answered quickly, striding to and fro. “I must see him to-night.”
“Why?”
“Because I leave England to-morrow.”
“You leave England?” she said hoarsely. “You intend to leave me here?”
“Surely you are comfortable enough? Malvano is Italian, and, although I was not aware that you were acquainted with him, he is nevertheless a very good fellow, and no doubt you are happy.”
“Happy!” she cried. “Happy without you, Nino! Ah! you are too cruel! If you could but know the truth; if you could but know what I have suffered, what I am at this moment suffering for your sake, you would never treat me thus—never.”
“Ah! your story is always the same—always,” he laughed superciliously. “I know now why you would never invite me to your house in Florence. You could not well take me to your great palazzo without me knowing its name. Again, you lived in that small flat in the Viale at Livorno instead of at your villa at Ardenza, that beautiful house overlooking the sea, coveted by all the Livornesi.”
“I have a reason for not living there,” she exclaimed quickly. “I have not entered it now for two years. Perhaps I shall never again cross its threshold.”