“Tell me, Nino,” she went on eagerly, following him and grasping his arm convulsively, “tell me the truth. Why are you here to-night?”
He turned quickly upon her, and made a movement to free himself from her grasp.
“Malvano is Italian,” he answered. “I have come to consult him upon a matter in which only an Italian can assist me.”
“I am Italian,” she said quickly. “Will you not let me render you at least one service, even if it be the last?” She looked earnestly into his face, and her soft arms wound themselves around his neck.
“I have no faith in you,” he answered. “I was a fool to enter here, but your voice brought back to me so many memories of those days that are dead, and I couldn’t resist.”
“Then you still think of me sometimes, caro,” she said, clinging to him. “Your love is not yet dead?”
“It is dead,” he declared, fiercely disengaging himself. “Gemma, whom I knew and loved in Livorno, will ever remain a sad sweet memory throughout my life; but the wealthy, wanton Contessa Funaro, the woman against whom every finger is pointed in Italy, I can never trust, I can never love.”
She fell back, crushed, humiliated, ashamed. A deathlike pallor overspread her face, and her eyes grew large, dark, and mournful. There are some griefs that are too deep, even for tears.
“You cannot trust me, Nino,” she cried a moment later. “But you can nevertheless heed one word which I speak in deepest earnest.”
“Well?”