“No, no,” he said, “I live there too. I am not going to leave you. But my mother will be the chief person then--my mother and Nelly, not me. They are ladies, they will be your chief friends and companions----” “I would rather have you; I know you; and I don’t like women,” said the girl. “Listen! Could not we live somewhere without letting them know? I can cook some dishes--very good maccaroni; and I can cook birds. I could do what you wanted, and make your _spese_. This would be far better than going to live with your mother. I do not like women.” She warmed as she spoke, turning to face him, with her hand still clasping his arm. “You must not say such things,” he said. “Why? This is the first time you have said ‘you must not.’ My father says women are all bad--not some here and there like men. I am one, but I cannot help it. I always try to be different. I would not do the things they do--nor look like them if I could help it. Are you rich?” “No,” said Frederick, becoming bewildered. He had risen up, but she detained him with her two hands holding his arm. “That is a pity. We were never rich. If you had been rich we might have taken Niccolo, who could have done everything--he is so clever. We might have stayed here. Stop!” she said suddenly, “there is a little cloud coming up over your face. Do not let it. Smile. You smiled when you came in first, and I knew that it was you, and was so happy.” “My poor child! Why were you happy?” “Because I knew it was you,” she said vehemently. “And now you talk of your mother. I do not want to go to your mother. Let me stay with you.” “Listen, Innocent,” he said, with a shade of impatience stealing over him. “There is no possibility of questioning where you are to go. You must go to my mother. I live there too. I cannot afford to have a house for myself. You must learn to be fond of my mother, and do whatever she wishes. Now let me go, please. I am going out to see the place. If we leave to-morrow, I may not have another opportunity. Come, come, you must let me go.”