"I'm going s-s-straight into the infernal regions," he answered languidly. "D-do you happen to have any friends there you want to send that ivy to? You n-needn't pull it all down, though."

She had fiercely torn off a handful of the climber from the pillar, and now flung it down with vehement anger.

"You are going into danger," she repeated; "and you won't even say so honestly! Do you think I am fit for nothing but to be fooled and joked with? You will get yourself hanged one of these days, and never so much as say good-bye. It's always politics and politics--I'm sick of politics!"

"S-so am I," said the Gadfly, yawning lazily; "and therefore we'll talk about something else--unless you will sing."

"Well, give me the guitar, then. What shall I sing?"

"The ballad of the lost horse; it suits your voice so well."

She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses first his horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with the reflection that "more was lost at Mohacz field." The song was one of the Gadfly's especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softer music ever did.

Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement desire of life. She would have sung Italian or Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.

The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this before. As she came to the last line, her voice began suddenly to shake.

"Ah, no matter! More was lost----"

She broke down with a sob and hid her face among the ivy leaves.

"Zita!" The Gadfly rose and took the guitar from her hand. "What is it?"

She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in both hands. He touched her on the arm.

"Tell me what is the matter," he said caressingly.

"Let me alone!" she sobbed, shrinking away. "Let me alone!"

He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the sobs died away.

Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.

"Felice--don't go! Don't go away!"

"We will talk about that afterwards," he said, gently extricating himself from the clinging arms. "Tell me first what has upset you so.

Has anything been frightening you?"

She silently shook her head.

"Have I done anything to hurt you?"

"No." She put a hand up against his throat.

"What, then?"

"You will get killed," she whispered at last. "I heard one of those men that come here say the other day that you will get into trouble--and when I ask you about it you laugh at me!"

"My dear child," the Gadfly said, after a little pause of astonishment, "you have got some exaggerated notion into your head. Very likely I shall get killed some day--that is the natural consequence of being a revolutionist. But there is no reason to suppose I am g-g-going to get killed just now. I am running no more risk than other people."

"Other people--what are other people to me? If you loved me you wouldn't go off this way and leave me to lie awake at night, wondering whether you're arrested, or dream you are dead whenever I go to sleep. You don't care as much for me as for that dog there!"

The Gadfly rose and walked slowly to the other end of the terrace.

He was quite unprepared for such a scene as this and at a loss how to answer her. Yes, Gemma was right; he had got his life into a tangle that he would have hard work to undo.

"Sit down and let us talk about it quietly," he said, coming back after a moment. "I think we have misunderstood each other; of course I should not have laughed if I had thought you were serious. Try to tell me plainly what is troubling you; and then, if there is any misunderstanding, we may be able to clear it up."

"There's nothing to clear up. I can see you don't care a bra.s.s farthing for me."

"My dear child, we had better be quite frank with each other. I have always tried to be honest about our relationship, and I think I have never deceived you as to----"

"Oh, no! you have been honest enough; you have never even pretended to think of me as anything else but a prost.i.tute,--a trumpery bit of second-hand finery that plenty of other men have had before you--"

"Hush, Zita! I have never thought that way about any living thing."

"You have never loved me," she insisted sullenly.

"No, I have never loved you. Listen to me, and try to think as little harm of me as you can."

"Who said I thought any harm of you? I----"

"Wait a minute. This is what I want to say: I have no belief whatever in conventional moral codes, and no respect for them. To me the relations between men and women are simply questions of personal likes and dislikes------"

"And of money," she interrupted with a harsh little laugh. He winced and hesitated a moment.

"That, of course, is the ugly part of the matter. But believe me, if I had thought that you disliked me, or felt any repulsion to the thing, I would never have suggested it, or taken advantage of your position to persuade you to it. I have never done that to any woman in my life, and I have never told a woman a lie about my feeling for her. You may trust me that I am speaking the truth----"

He paused a moment, but she did not answer.

"I thought," he went on; "that if a man is alone in the world and feels the need of--of a woman's presence about him, and if he can find a woman who is attractive to him and to whom he is not repulsive, he has a right to accept, in a grateful and friendly spirit, such pleasure as that woman is willing to give him, without entering into any closer bond. I saw no harm in the thing, provided only there is no unfairness or insult or deceit on either side. As for your having been in that relation with other men before I met you, I did not think about that. I merely thought that the connexion would be a pleasant and harmless one for both of us, and that either was free to break it as soon as it became irksome. If I was mistaken--if you have grown to look upon it differently--then----"

He paused again.

"Then?" she whispered, without looking up.

"Then I have done you a wrong, and I am very sorry. But I did not mean to do it."

"You 'did not mean' and you 'thought'----Felice, are you made of cast iron? Have you never been in love with a woman in your life that you can't see I love you?"

A sudden thrill went through him; it was so long since anyone had said to him: "I love you." Instantly she started up and flung her arms round him.

"Felice, come away with me! Come away from this dreadful country and all these people and their politics! What have we got to do with them? Come away, and we will be happy together. Let us go to South America, where you used to live."

The physical horror of a.s.sociation startled him back into self-control; he unclasped her hands from his neck and held them in a steady grasp.

"Zita! Try to understand what I am saying to you. I do not love you; and if I did I would not come away with you. I have my work in Italy, and my comrades----"

"And someone else that you love better than me!" she cried out fiercely.