“Exactly,” was his gloomy reply.  “And when my poor wife died—­” He got up, went in, and walked across the landing to the reception-room door, which he closed reverently.  Then he shut the door of the living-room with his foot, returned briskly to his seat, and continued his sentence.  “When my poor wife died I thought of having my relatives to live here.  My father wished to give up his practice at Empoli; my mother and sisters and two aunts were also willing.  But it was impossible.  They have their ways of doing things, and when I was younger I was content with them.  But now I am a man.  I have my own ways.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” said Miss Abbott, thinking of her own dear father, whose tricks and habits, after twenty-five years spent in their company, were beginning to get on her nerves.  She remembered, though, that she was not here to sympathize with Gino—­at all events, not to show that she sympathized.  She also reminded herself that he was not worthy of sympathy.  “It is a large house,” she repeated.

“Immense; and the taxes!  But it will be better when—­Ah! but you have never guessed why I went to Poggibonsi—­why it was that I was out when he called.”

“I cannot guess, Signor Carella.  I am here on business.”

“But try.”

“I cannot; I hardly know you.”

“But we are old friends,” he said, “and your approval will be grateful to me.  You gave it me once before.  Will you give it now?”

“I have not come as a friend this time,” she answered stiffly.  “I am not likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do.”

“Oh, Signorina!” He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing.  “Surely you approve of marriage?”

“Where there is love,” said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard.  His face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling.

“Where there is love,” said he, politely echoing the English view.  Then he smiled on her, expecting congratulations.

“Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?”

He nodded.

“I forbid you, then!”

He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed.

“I forbid you!” repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words.

“But why?” He jumped up, frowning.  His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy.

“You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another.  It is not a year since Lilia died.  You pretended to me the other day that you loved her.  It is a lie.  You wanted her money.  Has this woman money too?”

“Why, yes!” he said irritably.  “A little.”

“And I suppose you will say that you love her.”

“I shall not say it.  It will be untrue.  Now my poor wife—­” He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties.  And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else.