With his honest English imagination he did not know what the other meant. He had never read a French novel in his life (he could not, indeed, if he had wished), nor any English ones of that sort. According to him, when a man “fell in love” it was with the intention of marrying the girl he loved, and living happy ever after. The idea that it would last only for so long, and that there would come a time when you would have enough, and be weary--a moment which must arrive sooner or later--was such a thing as had no meaning to him. Paolo turned, too, when his friend said this, and gazed at him, startled and wondering. Suddenly the little Italian became aware that he was speaking another language, a tongue unknown to Harry. He did not know Harry’s tongue so far as this went, but being very quick and intelligent he perceived at once that it was not the same as his, and that in speaking as he did he had completely missed Harry’s comprehension. This took away from him the power of speech. How was he to find out Harry’s language? They remained for a full minute thus, baffled each by each, gazing at each other: Paolo, small and keen, trying hard to make his friend out; Harry, large, obtuse, confused, wondering what on heaven and earth this strange little being could mean. “Look here,” he said at last, “I’m English, you know. I don’t follow you a bit. Perhaps you’re too refined, and all that. You don’t fathom my difficulty, and I don’t understand in the least what you mean. Here’s what I want: just listen. I am fond of a girl, but I daren’t tell her I’m fond of her, because you know I have nothing to marry on, and I am not such a cur as to ask her to bury herself up for years waiting for me; and besides, it wouldn’t be handsome to her father, who has been very kind to me. What am I to do? Ought I to go right away? I don’t want to do that. Or can you tell me how I’m to put a padlock on my tongue, and go on seeing her, and never betray myself? No, by Jove! I don’t think I am strong enough for that.” “There is one thing will make it more easy,” said Paolo--he had dived deep into the records of his own experience to find precedents, but he found nothing which could throw any light upon so strange a case, and he was now casting about blindly for something to say--“there is one thing. This lady, this Signorina--is she then--what shall you call it? disposed to respond to you?” Harry’s face grew crimson. He gave a rapid glance back upon all their intercourse. He seemed to see Rita’s unconscious, tranquil face. Even when he had made that foolish speech about taking her to England she had been moved not a hair’s breadth. She had taken it with perfect calm, as one who had never thought upon the subject might quite well do. “I don’t think so,” he said, quickly, not looking his friend in the face.