“You probably felt sorry for me as soon as you saw me,” she continued, leaning back in her chair and speaking almost coldly.  “I am an object of pity, of course!”

Malipieri laughed a little at the very girlish speech.

“No,” he answered.  “I had not thought of you in that light.  I liked you, the first time I saw you.  That is much simpler than pitying.”

He laughed again, but it was at himself.

“You treat me like a child,” Sabina said with a little petulance.  “You have no right to!”

“Shall I treat you like a woman, Donna Sabina?” he said, suddenly serious.

“Yes.  I am sure I am old enough.”

“If you were not, I should certainly not feel as I do towards you.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you are a woman, you probably guess.”

“No.”

“You may be offended,” suggested Malipieri.

“Not unless you are rude—­or pity me.”  She smiled now.

“Is it very rude to like a person?” he asked.  “If you think it is, I will not go on.”

“I am not sure,” said Sabina demurely, and she looked down.

“In that case it is wiser not to run the risk of offending you past forgiveness!”

It was very amusing to hear him talk, for no man had ever talked to her in this way before.  She knew that he was thought immensely clever, but he did not seem at all superior now, and she was glad of it.  She should have felt very foolish if he had discoursed to her learnedly about Carthage and antiquities.  Instead, he was simple and natural, and she liked him very much; and the little devil that enters into every woman about the age of sixteen and is not often cast out before fifty, even by prayer and fasting, suddenly possessed her.

“Rudeness is not always past forgiveness,” she said, with a sweet smile.

Malipieri looked at her gravely and wondered whether he had any right to take up the challenge.  He had never been in love with a young girl in his life, and somehow it did not seem fair to speak as he had been speaking.  It was very odd that his sense of honour should assert itself just then.  It might have been due to the artificial traditions of generations without end, before him.  At the same time, he knew something of women, and in her last speech he recognized the womanly cooing, the call of the mate, that has drawn men to happiness or destruction ever since the world began.  She was a mere girl, of course, but since he had said so much, she could not help tempting him to go to the end and tell her he loved her.

Though Malipieri did not pretend to be a model of all the virtues, he was thoroughly fair in all his dealings, according to his lights, and just then he would have thought it the contrary of fair to say what she seemed to expect.  He knew instinctively that no one had ever said it to her before, which was a good reason for not saying it lightly; and he was sure that he could not say it quite seriously, and