“Nay, take these to her, and give them to her with my compliments.”

“She does not know you.”

“You could tell her who I am.”

“I do not know you either.”

It was not the first time that she had denied him thus.  One Sunday of last year, when that painter had first come to Sorrento, Antonio had chanced to be playing boccia with some other young fellows in the little piazza by the chief street.

There, for the first time, had the painter caught sight of Laurella, who, with her pitcher on her head, had passed by without taking any notice of him.  The Neapolitan, struck by her appearance, stood still and gazed after her, not heeding that he was standing in the very midst of the game, which, with two steps, he might have cleared.  A very ungentle ball came knocking against his shins, as a reminder that this was not the spot to choose for meditation.  He looked round, as if in expectation of some excuse.  But the young boatman who had thrown the ball stood silent among his friends, in such an attitude of defiance that the stranger had found it more advisable to go his ways and avoid discussion.  Still, this little encounter had been spoken of, particularly at the time when the painter had been pressing his suit to Laurella.  “I do not even know him,” she said indignantly, when the painter asked her whether it was for the sake of that uncourteous lad she now refused him.  But she had heard that piece of gossip, and known Antonio well enough when she had met him since.

And now they sat together in this boat, like two most deadly enemies, while their hearts were beating fit to kill them.  Antonio’s usually so good-humored face was heated to scarlet; he struck the oars so sharply that the foam flew over to where Laurella sat, while his lips moved as if muttering angry words.  She pretended not to notice, wearing her most unconscious look, bending over the edge of the boat, and letting the cool water pass between her fingers.  Then she threw off her handkerchief again, and began to smooth her hair, as though she had been alone.  Only her eyebrows twitched, and she held up her wet hands in vain attempts to cool her burning cheeks.

Now they were well out in the open sea.  The island was far behind, and the coast before them lay yet distant in the hot haze.  Not a sail was within sight, far or near—­not even a passing gull to break the stillness.  Antonio looked all round, evidently ripening some hasty resolution.  The color faded suddenly from his cheek, and he dropped his oars.  Laurella looked round involuntarily—­fearless, yet attentive.

“I must make an end of this,” the young fellow burst forth.  “It has lasted too long already!  I only wonder that it has not killed me!  You say you do not know me?  And all this time you must have seen me pass you like a madman, my whole heart full of what I had to tell you; and then you only made your crossest mouth, and turned your back upon me.”