“Why?”
“Already I have told you it is impossible for me to explain,” she answered vehemently, in her voluble Italian. “If you really love me, it is surely sufficient to know that the police are in ignorance of facts which I feared were revealed; and that they have not obtained the one item of information necessary to effect my ruin and disgrace.”
“Why do you speak like this?” he demanded quickly. “Has your past life in Florence been so full of mystery that you fear its exposure?”
“There are certain matters which I desire to keep secret—which I will keep secret, even if it costs me the loss of you, the man I adore,” she answered fiercely.
“Then they are matters which surely concern me—if I am to be your husband,” he said gravely.
“No,” she answered calmly, still pale to the lips; “they only concern myself. I admit freely that there is a secret connected with my past—a secret which I shall strive to preserve, because its revelation would, I know, cause you, my beloved, much worry and unnecessary pain. I therefore prefer to hide this truth and fight my enemies alone.”
“Is not this secret one that, before marrying you, I ought to know?” he demanded earnestly.
“It cannot concern you in any way,” she declared. “True, it has reference to my past life, but surely you don’t believe me to be an adventuress—do you?”
“Of course not, piccina,” he answered, laughing, as he again placed his arm tenderly around her waist. “You an adventuress! What made you suggest such a thing?”
“I must be an enigma to you,” she said. “But believe me, I would tell you everything if I could see that you could be benefited in the least. The story is a long and wretched one; and when I reflect upon the closed chapter of my life’s history, I am always dolorous and unhappy. The more so because I’m unable to confide in you, the man I love.”