“Aye, yes,” cried the count, “there is every reason. I do not know where I may have to go. I do not know how I am to live--to travel--with what associates I must combine. My dear child, you must know the truth; my love must venture to speak it. You would be a drag upon every step, and with you I should not dare to face a single peril. I must go alone; I know the hardship, but that is the task of women. They wait at home and suffer, while the man goes out to enjoy adventure and excitement. It was your mother's fortune, my child, and you inherit it. She was all English, and yet she endured it for my sake. You are at least half of Italy, and Italy has need of both of us. If Italy needs my life, she is welcome to it. If she had need of yours, I would say not a word to hold you back. But your place is at home. Is it not so, Fyffe?” I was a selfish advocate enough, but he had reason on his side, and I should have been blind indeed not to have seen it. “It will be wiser--wiser far,” I urged, “to stay at home. To speak plainly, you could not fail, in any sudden emergency, to hamper your father's steps. He would be nervous about you, and anxious for your safety.” “But there is no need for that,” she cried, with a tender impatience. “I am not afraid. If I were a man you should not talk to me so.” “No,” said the count, rising and folding his arms about her. “If you were a man, my dearest, you should have your way.” “Oh,” she said, with a downward gesture of her clinched hands, “I hate these thoughts about women. Why should we not have courage? Why shouldn't we share danger with those we care about? I am not afraid of danger. But I could keep you away from it when there was no reason for it.” “Violet,” said her father, gently, “I am not inclined to be rash; not now. I have had twenty years of warning, remember.” “Remember, poor dear!” she cried, with both arms round his neck and her face hidden on his shoulder, “I have never forgotten for a moment since I knew that you were alive. But don't let me be so useless. Let me do something. Let me be near you. Don't leave me behind.” “You do much already,” said the count, soothing her as he spoke with one loving hand upon her flushed and tear-stained cheek. “You surrender your father and your plighted husband, and a great slice of your fortune. Ah, dearest, you do enough!” “I do nothing,” she declared. “Oh, I wish I were a man!” “So do not I,” said the count. “I should quarrel with any wish the fulfilment of which robbed me of my daughter.” She moved away from him gently, and dried her eyes. Her father watched her solicitously, and by-and-by she walked to the window of the room and said, in a tone of commonplace: “You cannot prevent me from following you.” “I can forbid it,” he said, in a tone of pain.