“You used to honour my hand differently from that,” she half whispered.  Nino sat himself down a little way from her, blushing slightly.  It was not at what she had said, but at the thought that he should ever have kissed her fingers.

“Signora,” he replied, “there are customs, chivalrous and gentle in themselves, and worthy for all men to practise.  But from the moment a custom begins to mean what it should not, it ought to be abandoned.  You will forgive me if I no longer kiss your hand.”

“How cold you are!—­how formal!  What should it mean?”

“It is better to say too little than too much,” he answered.

“Bah!” she cried, with a bitter little laugh.  “Words are silver, but silence—­is very often nothing but silver-plated brass.  Put a little more wood on the fire; you make me cold.”  Nino obeyed.

“How literal you are!” said the baroness petulantly.  “There is fire enough on the hearth.”

“Apparently, signora, you are pleased to be enigmatical,” said Nino.

“I will be pleased to be anything I please,” she answered, and looked at him rather fiercely.  “I wanted you to drive away my headache, and you only make it worse.”

“I am sorry, signora.  I will leave you at once.  Permit me to wish you a very good-morning.”  He took his hat and went towards the door.  Before he reached the heavy curtain, she was at his side with a rush like a falcon on the wing, her eyes burning darkly between anger and love.

“Nino!” She laid hold of his arm, and looked into his face.

“Signora,” he protested coldly, and drew back.

“You will not leave me so?”

“As you wish, signora.  I desire to oblige you.”

“Oh, how cold you are!” she cried, leaving his arm, and sinking into a chair by the door, while he stood with his hand on the curtain.  She hid her eyes.  “Nino, Nino!  You will break my heart!” she sobbed; and a tear, perhaps more of anger than of sorrow, burst through her fingers, and coursed down her cheek.

Few men can bear to see a woman shed tears.  Nino’s nature rose up in his throat, and bade him console her.  But between him and her was a fair, bright image that forbade him to move hand or foot.

“Signora,” he said, with all the calm he could command, “if I were conscious of having by word or deed of mine given you cause to speak thus, I would humbly implore your forgiveness.  But my heart does not accuse me.  I beg you to allow me to take leave of you.  I will go away, and you shall have no further cause to think of me.”  He moved again, and lifted the curtain.  But she was like a panther, so quick and beautiful.  Ah, how I could have loved that woman!  She held him, and would not let him go, her smooth fingers fastening round his wrists like springs.

“Please to let me go,” he said, between his teeth, with rising anger.

“No!  I will not let you!” she cried fiercely, tightening her grasp on him.  Then the angry fire in her tearful eyes seemed suddenly to melt into a soft flame, and the colour came faster to her cheeks.  “Ah, how can you let me so disgrace myself! how can you see me fallen so low as to use the strength of my hands, and yet have no pity?  Nino, Nino, do not kill me!”