"I swear it's true! Why should I say what isn't true? You are the most beautiful, the gentlest, the sweetest of all girls. If you knew how I thought of you when my landlady's two girls in the first house flung themselves at me and at Battista! I felt as if they were some sort of plague struck creatures while you--you were a saint, soft and pure, and fresh, and lovely!" "But I'm afraid I, too,--" "That's quite different. Don't say such horrid things! You know I get vexed when you are cold. We are betrothed. Isn't it true? Aren't we going to marry each other? Tell me yes." "Yes." "Say that you love me." "Yes." "Don't say just Yes. Say it like this. I--love--thee." "I--love--thee. If I didn't love you should I be here? Of course I love you! I can't express myself, but I do love you; probably more than you love me." "It's not true. I love you most. But you do love me, yes I know it," he continued, becoming grave, "you who might aspire to anyone, you are so beautiful and so rich!" "Rich? I don't know about that. Suppose I'm not?" "I should like it much, much better." They were silent, each grave, each following private thoughts; almost divided. "You know," he said suddenly, following the thread of his own ideas, "I've been told your family has guessed our love. Is it true?" "Yes," she said, after a short hesitation. "Really? Really? Then your father is not angry?" Margherita hesitated again. Then raised her head and said drily, "I don't know." From her manner Anania understood something unfavourable, something unexpected which he could not make out. What was happening? Was the girl hiding some disagreeable secret? His mind flew to her, to his mother, to the distant phantom, and he asked if this shadow was coming between him and his love. "You must tell me frankly," he said, distractedly caressing her hands, "what is going on? Am I to be allowed to aspire to you or not? May I go on hoping? You know what I am; a poor dependent on your family; the son of one of your servants." "What nonsense!" she exclaimed impatiently. "Your father isn't a servant. Even if he were, he's a man respected and honoured by everyone, and that's enough." "Honoured and respected!" Anania repeated to himself, pierced to the soul. "Oh God, she is not honoured and respected!" But he reflected at once that Margherita would not talk like this if she were thinking of _that woman_. Probably the Carboni's all thought Olì was dead. She must have something else on her mind.