“What do you mean, conte?” she faltered, half timidly, yet anxiously; “I do not understand!”

“I mean what I say,” I continued in cool hard tones, and stooping, I picked up her work and restored it to her; “but pray do not excite yourself!  You say you cannot always enjoy my protection; it seems to me that you can—­by becoming my wife.”

“Conte!” she stammered.  I held up my hand as a sign to her to be silent.

“I am perfectly aware,” I went on in business-like accents—­“of the disparity in years that exists between us.  I have neither youth, health, or good looks to recommend me to you.  Trouble and bitter disappointment have made me what I am.  But I have wealth which is almost inexhaustible—­I have position and influence—­and beside these things”—­and here I looked at her steadily, “I have an ardent desire to do justice to your admirable qualities, and to give you all you deserve.  If you think you could be happy with me, speak frankly—­I cannot offer you the passionate adoration of a young man--my blood is cold and my pulse is slow—­but what I can do, I will!”

Having spoken thus, I was silent—­gazing at her intently.  She paled and flushed alternately, and seemed for a moment lost in thought—­ then a sudden smile of triumph curved her mouth—­she raised her large lovely eyes to mine, with a look of melting and wistful tenderness.  She laid her needle-work gently down, and came close up to me—­her fragrant breath fell warm on my cheek—­her strange gaze fascinated me, and a sort of tremor shook my nerves.

“You mean,” she said, with a tender pathos in her voice—­“that you are willing to marry me, but that you do not really love me?”

And almost appealingly she laid her white hand on my shoulder—­her musical accents were low and thrilling—­she sighed faintly.  I was silent—­battling violently with the foolish desire that had sprung up within me, the desire to draw this witching fragile thing to my heart, to cover her lips with kisses—­to startle her with the passion of my embraces!  But I forced the mad impulse down and stood mute.  She watched me—­slowly she lifted her hand from where it had rested, and passed it with a caressing touch through my hair.

“No—­you do not really love me,” she whispered—­“but I will tell you the truth—­I love you!”

And she drew herself up to her full height and smiled again as she uttered the lie.  I knew it was a lie—­but I seized the hand whose caresses stung me, and held it hard, as I answered: 

“You love me?  No, no—­I cannot believe it—­it is impossible!”

She laughed softly.  “It is true though,” she said, emphatically, “the very first time I saw you I knew I should love you!  I never even liked my husband, and though in some things you resemble him, you are quite different in others—­and superior to him in every way.  Believe it or not as you like, you are the only man in all the world I have ever loved!”