“I should have had to leave you in the middle of the play.” “Ah, well,” I consented; and we left the villa and took a cab. “Are you happy, Zabetta?” I asked her, as the cab rattled us towards our parting. “Oh, so happy, so happy! I have never been so happy before.” “Dearest Zabetta!” “You will love me always?” “Always, always.” “We will see each other every day. We will see each other to-morrow?” “Oh, to-morrow!” I groaned suddenly, the actualities of life rushing all at once upon my mind. “What is it? What of to-morrow?” “Oh, to-morrow, to-morrow!” “What? What?” Her voice was breathless with suspense, with alarm. “Oh, I had forgotten. You will think I am a beast.” “What is it? For heaven’s sake, tell me.” “You will think I am a beast. You will think I have deceived you. To-morrow—I cannot help it—I am not my own master—I am summoned by my parents—to-morrow I am going away—I am leaving Naples.” “You are leaving Naples?” “I am going to Paris.” “To Paris?” “Yes.” There was a breathing-space of silence. Then, “Oh, Dio!” sobbed Zabetta; and she began to cry as if her heart would break. I seized her hands; I drew her to me. I tried to comfort her. But she only cried and cried and cried. “Zabetta... Zabetta.... Don’t cry... Forgive me.... Oh, don’t cry like that.” “Oh, Dio! Oh, caro Dio!” she sobbed. “Zabetta—listen to me,” I began. “I have something to say to you....” “Cosa?” she asked faintly. “Zabetta—do you really love me?” “Oh, tanto, tanto!” “Then, listen, Zabetta. If you really love me—come with me.” “Come with you. How?” “Come with me to Paris.” “To Paris?” “Yes, to-morrow.” There was another instant of silence, and then again Zabetta began to cry. “Will you? Will you? Will you come with me to Paris?” I implored her. “Oh, I would, I would. But I can’t. I can’t.” “Why not?” “Oh, I can’t.” “Why? Why can’t you?” “Oh, my father—I cannot leave my father.” “Your father? But—if you love me———” “He is old. He is ill. He has no one but me. I cannot leave him.” “Zabetta!” “No, no. I cannot leave him. Oh, Dio mio!” “But Zabetta————” “No. It would be a sin. Oh, the worst of sins. He is old and ill. I cannot leave him. Don’t ask me. It would be dreadful.” “But then? Then what? What shall we do?” “Oh, I don’t know. I wish I were dead.” The cab came to a standstill, and Zabetta said, “Here we are.” I helped her to descend. We were before a dark porte-cochêre, in some dark back-street, high up the hillside. “Addio,” said Zabetta, holding out her hand. “You won’t come with me?” “I can’t. I can’t. Addio.” “Oh, Zabetta! Do you———Oh, say, say that you forgive me.” “Yes. Addio.” “And, Zabetta, you—you have my address. It is on the card I gave you. If you ever need anything—if you are ever in trouble of any kind—remember you have my address—you will write to me.” “Yes. Addio.” “Addio.”