"Why not until January?"

"You will be good if I tell you?" he asked when he had kissed her.

"Yes, yes; only hold me."

"Gemma, you must know that I am poor. I have told you often how the palace in Florence is shabby, eaten up with moth and rust. The Villa at Certaldo is falling into ruins too. I am poor."

"You have an automobile, servants, horses; you stay here at the best hotel."

"I should not be poor for a _contadino_ but I am for a prince," he said impatiently and with emphasis. "Believe me, I want money, and I must have it. I cannot steal it or earn it, or win it in the lottery unfortunately, so I must marry it."

She cowered down as though he had struck her, and made an effort to escape from him, but he held her fast. She tried to speak, but the pain in her throat prevented her from uttering an articulate sound.

"Do not think of the woman," he said hurriedly. "You need not. I do not. Once I am married I shall go my own way, of course, but her father is in Naples now, and he is a tiresome old fool."

"_Santissimo Dio!_" she gasped presently. "When--when--"

"In December."

"Is she beautiful?"

He laughed as he gave the answer she hoped for. "She is an American,"

he added, "and it sets one's teeth on edge to hear her trying to talk Italian. Her accent! She is a small dry thing like a gra.s.shopper."

"I wish she was dead."

He set himself to soothe and comfort her, but it was not easy.

"I might as well be ugly," she cried again and again.

It was the simple expression of her defeat. The beauty she had held to be a shield against sorrow and a key to the garden of delights was but a poor thing after all. It had not availed her, and she had nothing else. She was stripped now, naked, alone and defenceless in a hard world.

"_Carissima_, be still. Have patience. I love you, and I shall come for you," whispered Tor di Rocca, and she tried to believe him, and to persuade herself that the flame in his brown eyes would burn for her always.

Slowly, as the pa.s.sion of grief ebbed, the tide of love rose in her and flushed her wan, tear-stained face and made it beautiful. The door of the room was opened, but neither she nor the man heard it, or saw it closed again. It was their last hour, this bare room was their world and they were alone in it.

CHAPTER XI

The table was set for lunch out on the terrace where Astorre lay gazing upon his Tuscany, veiled in a shimmering haze of heat and crowned with August blue. The best coffee cups of majolica ware had been set out, and signora had made a _zabajone_ in honour of _Ferragosto_. It was meant to please Olive, who was childishly fond of its thick yellow sweetness, but she seemed restless and depressed; Astorre looked ill, and his mother's eyes were anxious as they dwelt on him, and so the dainty was eaten in silence, and pa.s.sed away unhonoured and unsung as though it were humble pie or a funeral baked meat.

Later in the afternoon, when the signora had gone to lie down, Astorre began to ask questions.

"Is your face hot?"

"Yes--no--what makes you think--"

"You are flushed," he said bluntly, "and you will not meet my eyes.

Why? Why?"

"Don't ask," she answered. "I cannot tell you."

The haggard, aquiline face changed and hardened. "Someone has been rude to you, or has frightened you."

"No." She moved away to escape the inquisition of his eyes. "Some of these plants want water. I shall fetch some." She was going in when he called to her.

"Olive," he said haltingly. "Perhaps we ought to have told you before.

My mother heard of some people who want an English governess from a friend of hers who is a music mistress in Florence. They are rich and would pay well, and we should have told you when we heard of it, three days ago, but I could not bear the thought of your leaving Siena while--while I am still here. But if those people in the Piazza Tolomei are unkind--"

She came back then and sat down beside him. "I do not want to leave Siena," she said gently.

"Thank you," he answered, and added: "It will not be for long. Why should I pretend to you?" he went on. "I have suffered, but now I have no pain at all, only I am very weak. Look!"

He held up his hand; it was yellowish white and so thin as to be almost transparent, and it seemed to Olive to be most pathetic because it was not very small or very finely made. It held the broken promise of power, she thought sorrowfully, and she stroked the outstretched palm gently as though it were a half-frozen bird that she would bring to life again.

He closed his eyes, smiling. "Ah, your little fingers are soft and warm."

"You were at the theatre last night," he said presently. "Fausto saw you. How do you like your cousin's _fidanzato_?"

"Not at all."

"Olive, do you know that they say strange things about the Odalisque?

I am afraid there will be trouble if her Lucchese hears--"

"I do not care to hear that nickname," she said coldly. "It is impertinent and absurd."

"Oh, do not let go of my hand," he implored. "Keep on stroking it. I love it! I love it! If I were a cat you would hear me purring. Tell me about England and Shakespeare and Sh.e.l.ley. Anything. I will be good."

"I--I have not brought the book I promised you. I would have fetched it on my way here, but--but I had not the key. I am sorry, _nino_.

Yes, let us talk of nice things."

She was quick to relent, and soon seemed to be herself again, and he kept his fever-bright eyes on her, watching her as in the old days men may have watched the stars as they waited for the dawn that was to see them pa.s.s by the Vicolo dei Moribondi.

Soon, very soon, Signora Aurelia would come out to them, and she would stay beside her son while Olive went to put on her hat, and then they would say "_Addio_" and leave him. And perhaps he would indeed go to G.o.d, or to some place where he would see the dear ones no more. The boy's beautiful lips were shut close, but the grey eyes darkened and dilated painfully.

"Astorre! Are you ill? Do not look so. Oh, I will not go to the Palio. I will stay with you."

"No, you must go, and to-morrow you can tell me all about it. But will you kiss me now? Do."

"You need not ask twice, dear Astorre," she whispered, as she leant over him and touched his forehead with her lips.

"_Ma che!_" he said ungratefully. "That's nothing. Kiss me properly and at once."

When the boy's mother came out on to the terrace a moment later Olive's blue eyes were full of tears and the rose flush of her cheeks had deepened, but she looked at her friend very kindly as she uttered the word he had been afraid to hear.

"_Addio!_"