"I knew there was you, though! I knew I should find you!" he cried. "Oh, I’ve hungered for you and thirsted for you! I’ve been so restless and unsatisfied! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve found you, dear, beloved girl!" "But you don’t know me!" she protested, with an almost painful anxiety. "Perhaps I’m not--as nice--as you think." "I do know you! I know all your soul. I was born to know you and to comprehend you. You are my sovereign, my most beautiful and adored lady. I am your knight and your servant forever. I think I could faint with joy for a touch of your dear hand!" Tears sprang to her eyes, she was so moved by his words, by his ardent and touching voice. She stood motionless, still with her hand in his; but some tremor, some sign which his agile heart at once detected, must have told him that his moment had come. He drew her close to him and clasped her in a strong and tender embrace, her heart beating close to his, while he stroked her soft hair. "My little one!" he whispered. "My beloved little one! Madonna! Dear, glorious angel!" His voice broke in a sort of sob, and the hand smoothing her hair trembled. He bent and kissed her cheek, kissed her again; then, suddenly, his embrace tightened, and he pressed his lips against hers with something quite different, something quite devoid of tenderness. She struggled, pushed him roughly away. "Don’t!" she said, sharply. For she wanted it to stop there. She wanted this to be love, this half-sad ecstasy, these stirring, heart-breaking words. She wished to go no further. Perhaps the ghosts of dead mothers for ages back come to beseech young girls, to entreat them in silent voices: "Oh, do not, my daughter, for the love of God, do not become a woman! Stop here! Let this suffice! For whatever little you may gain, you will lose a hundred times as much. Draw back from this bitter, bitter draught!" "Kiss me!" he entreated, following her further into the room. "No!" she said harshly. "Go away! Go out and close the door! Go away, or I’ll call!" He stopped at once. "I thought you loved me!" he cried. "I do," she said, with sublime honesty. "Only--I want you to go. Good night!" CHAPTER TWELVE I And here was Angelica, the very next afternoon, sitting once more in her mother’s underground kitchen, with the teapot handy beside her on the stove and a familiar blue and white cup and saucer before her; but the kitchen was not as in the old days. Now it was all disorder and dirt, the clock had stopped, the floor was unswept, the bright blackness of the stove was lost in a grayish fuzz. The mistress--or, one might better say, the servant--of this little domain, who had worked so valiantly to preserve its decency, was lying ill in the adjoining bedroom. Angelica had got a brief note from her that morning at the breakfast-table: DEAR ANGELICA: I am taken ill, and do not know how ever I shall manage. If you can spare the time I wish you would come.