been a Gambucino well off.  It was not for the gold they cared; it was the wandering about looking for it in the stony country that got into them and wouldn’t let them rest; so that no woman yet born could hold a Gambucino for more than a week.  That’s what the song says.  It’s all about a pretty girl that tried hard to keep hold of a Gambucino lover, so that he should bring her lots of gold.  No fear!  Off he went, and she never saw him again.”

“What became of her?” she breathed out.

“The song don’t tell.  Cried a bit, I daresay.  They were the fellows:  kiss and go.  But it’s the looking for a thing—­a something . . .  Sometimes I think I am a sort of Gambucino myself.”

“No woman can hold you, then,” she began in a brazen voice, which quavered suddenly before the end.

“No longer than a week,” he joked, playing upon her very heartstrings with the gay, tender note of his laugh; “and yet I am fond of them all.  Anything for a woman of the right sort.  The scrapes they got me into, and the scrapes they got me out of!  I love them at first sight.  I’ve fallen in love with you already, Miss—­Bessie’s your name—­eh?”

She backed away a little, and with a trembling laugh: 

“You haven’t seen my face yet.”

He bent forward gallantly.  “A little pale:  it suits some.  But you are a fine figure of a girl, Miss Bessie.”

She was all in a flutter.  Nobody had ever said so much to her before.

His tone changed.  “I am getting middling hungry, though.  Had no breakfast to-day.  Couldn’t you scare up some bread from that tea for me, or—­”

She was gone already.  He had been on the point of asking her to let him come inside.  No matter.  Anywhere would do.  Devil of a fix!  What would his chum think?

“I didn’t ask you as a beggar,” he said, jestingly, taking a piece of bread-and-butter from the plate she held before him.  “I asked as a friend.  My dad is rich, you know.”

“He starves himself for your sake.”

“And I have starved for his whim,” he said, taking up another piece.

“All he has in the world is for you,” she pleaded.

“Yes, if I come here to sit on it like a dam’ toad in a hole.  Thank you; and what about the shovel, eh?  He always had a queer way of showing his love.”

“I could bring him round in a week,” she suggested, timidly.

He was too hungry to answer her; and, holding the plate submissively to his hand, she began to whisper up to him in a quick, panting voice.  He listened, amazed, eating slower and slower, till at last his jaws stopped altogether.  “That’s his game, is it?” he said, in a rising tone of scathing contempt.  An ungovernable movement of his arm sent the plate flying out of her fingers.  He shot out a violent curse.

She shrank from him, putting her hand against the wall.

“No!” he raged.  “He expects!  Expects me—­for his rotten money! . . . .  Who wants his home?  Mad—­not he!  Don’t you think.  He wants his own way.  He wanted to turn me into a miserable lawyer’s clerk, and now he wants to make of me a blamed tame rabbit in a cage.  Of me!  Of me!” His subdued angry laugh frightened her now.